


Castiel the Chicken Witch

by mangotangerine



Series: Castiel is a Chicken [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Comedy, Curses, Dark, Drama, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Thriller, Witch Castiel, Witches, but not gore, chicken castiel, chicken!castiel, eventual destiel, more tags and characters will be added as I post, no chicken sex, witch!castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangotangerine/pseuds/mangotangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are hunting a witch that has been wreaking havoc in a small town in Wisconsin, when they stumble upon a good witch who has been cursed by the bad witch. Except they don’t know it’s a good witch. Because it’s a chicken. A big, floofy, adorable, disgruntled chicken, who can talk and has magical powers and is a little bit psychic. The chicken, who insists its name is Castiel, is a bit disturbed by how much Dean seems to like him (okay, really? fantasizing about building a fancy coop and buying a nice collar? insisting he sleep in Dean’s bed “for warmth” and carrying him around constantly? that’s a bit much), but is also kind of flattered. Together they go off in search of the bad witch and a way to defeat her, as Castiel insists she is *very* powerful. They get into trouble, explore local myths and legends, face off against big bad scaries, and manage not to get themselves killed. Can they find the witch? Can they defeat her? If anyone can, it's Sam and Dean (and their chicken sidekick).</p><p>(There will be light Destiel, with an additional fiction in the series with all the sexytimes. There will be no bestiality/chicken sex. I promise.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary, this will sort of be a "verse" with an added epilogue as a separate fic, rated E for intimate relations, so that people who aren't into Destiel can ignore it, and so people who aren't into sexy times can avoid it. :)
> 
> This is sort of a horror fic, interspersed with comedy because I can't avoid it, with thriller elements and mystery elements as they are solving a case. But there is no gore, no character death (if I add temporary character death at some point I will tag it in the chapter and tag it in the overall fic), and if you happen upon anything you think should have trigger warnings let me know. I'll try to watch out for that sort of thing, but I'm not perfect. At points I even scared myself writing it, so either I'm a wuss or it's totally scary!
> 
> I have no beta, so if anything is confusing/needs to be rewritten, or there are typos, or grammar is wonky, also let me know.
> 
> Feedback is appreciated, even if it is critique!

Castiel is not sure how he found himself in this position. Well, no, that’s not true, he knows exactly how. Insulting an evil witch’s taste in décor is never a good idea, along with telling her that illusion magic is so passé. Which is probably why the witch, instead of attempting to fight and kill him, decided to demonstrate exactly why illusion magic was useful and fun.

And _that_ is how he ended up in the middle of the field, a mere 2 pounds, black, fluffy, fat Silkie chicken. _Fuck_.

 

 

 

The only good thing seems to be that his magic has condensed itself into his smaller body and is now more potent, or something. And also he has become psychic? Which, no, it’s not as cool as it is in the movies, because as he picks his way across the field, he can somehow pick up not only the thoughts of _humans_ , but the thoughts of animals as well.

He tilts his head, looking over at a squirrel digging in the ground.

 _Nuts nuts nuts nuts. Nut? Nut? Acorn! Acorns? Nut nut nut. Acorn!_ There is a strong breeze that day, and one of the small branches on the tree the squirrel is under breaks loose and falls to the ground. He sees the squirrel jump, hears the _OH FUCK NO OH GOD MONSTER OH I’M GONNA DIE FUCK_ as the squirrel races up the tree and jumps onto the power line, racing away. His feathers ruffle in the wind and he is almost swept away.

Fuck.

He starts walking in the direction he thinks his home is, finding his sense of direction is different as a chicken. It’s not _bad_ , it’s just _weird_ , and he feels a bit discombobulated. He resigns himself to a long trek back and attempts to hide from the humans he sees, hoping they don’t try to pick him up. A small child notices him and screeches, racing towards him. Castiel runs.

Double fuck.

x

“Another disappearance,” Sam says, voice flat. He has the town newspaper spread out on the rickety motel table while Dean frowns at the dilapidated-looking coffee pot struggling to produce coffee. He sighs.

“Same M.O.?”

“Yeah. I bet you a hundred bucks it’s the same hex bag, too.”

“Not gonna bet against that one, Sammy. I guess we get on our super cool FBI outfits and poke around some more,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head. He hits the top of the coffee maker in frustration. It’s been 15 minutes, there should be more than just barely reaching the bottom measuring line on the glass coffee pot.

“It’s a lost cause, Dean,” Sam says, noticing Dean’s withering glare directed towards the poor machine. “Just turn it off and let’s pick some up on the way to the police station,” Sam shakes his head as he moves to the closet where they hung up their suits, grabbing his and inspecting it for wrinkles.

Dean notices what Sam is doing and wrinkles his nose, shaking his head. “Just put the damn thing on, Sammy.”

“Shut up, jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean snarks back, following suit, and soon they are on their way to the station.

x

Castiel is lost.

He’s passed that bakery three times. He’s walked by the police station at least twice. He stands in front of it again, head tilted as he looks up at it. Somehow he finds he suddenly is illiterate and cannot read, which is probably why he is having trouble. If you can’t read, road signs become irrelevant to you, and Castiel has never been good at figuring out where he’s going without Google Maps to give him turn-by-turn directions.

He knows he lives on Hidden Valley Rd., somewhere past the creepy looking Baptist church with the creepy dress code and robot smiles, and he’s going to stop thinking about them. A man passes by, eyes glued to his phone, and he balks at the thoughts being broadcasted. He wished he could fucking turn this off.

 _Sweet, she said hi back, I should probably send a dick pic now, right?_ He hears the thoughts and wishes he didn’t, waddling elegantly away from the sidewalk toward the front entrance of the station. _That dumb cow, where does she get off telling me to fuck off? My dick is fucking beautiful_.

Castiel squawks, running away as fast as his tiny chicken legs would let him.

He squawks again as he is almost trampled, two men exiting the doors of the police station, irritation bleeding off them.

He gets a bit dizzy at the combination of thoughts being picked up by his dumb chicken psychic brain, and he’s really glad he didn’t have to go anywhere crowded because he’s pretty sure he’d pass out and puke. Or like, whatever chickens did instead of puke. Do chickens puke? How does his body even work now? He shuffles out of the way, wings flapping with _dignity_ , damnit, as he is almost kicked to the side.

“Woah!” the big one notices him, and Castiel is reminded somewhat of a moose. So large. So intimidating. So goofy looking. Castiel growls at him, or does that angry chicken noise, puffing his feathers up.

“Don’t touch me!” Castiel yells, or he wished it was a yell, but it comes off as a comical cartoonish chicken voice. He hops backwards, stumbling and nearly falling over. He flaps his wings in a panic, finally righting himself.

The moose’s eyes widen and he stumbles back. “What the fuck? Did you hear that?”

There’s the pretty one, stepping closer, eyes narrowed. “Did that chicken just… talk?” he mutters, glancing nervously at the moose one.

“I’m right fucking here, you assbutts.”

“Assbutt?” the pretty one mumbles, pretty face twisting into a look of confusion. The moose raises an eyebrow.

“I’m pretty sure the chicken is talking, and I’m also pretty sure I’m not on drugs.”

“Is it the witch?” the pretty one asks, suddenly animated and excited. He steps forward menacingly and Castiel lets out another indignant squawk.

“So what if I am! Stay away!”

He is suddenly met with the force of two glares, one from the goofy moose and one from the Playgirl-model-looking-one.

“You behind the disappearances then?” the pretty one says, clenching his fists.

“What? No! No, I tried to stop her, but I…” Castiel shifts nervously, but it just looks like a strange sideways waddle and wings ruffling. “I told her illusion magic was passé and she turned me into a chicken.”

The moose and the pretty one stared, confused looks on their face. Confused and skeptical. And Castiel could hear the jumble of thoughts.

_What the fu—is this chicken for real?—how is this chicken talking?—am I high or—is this an alternate dimen—he’s kind of cute, fluffy, I wanna touch him_

And, _what_?!

“You can’t touch me!” he puffs his feathers up intimidatingly.

The pretty one looks startled. “You can—how did you—what?!”

He wishes he could roll his eyes as a chicken. “I’m _magic_ , remember?”

The moose shakes his head, shifting nervously. _Why does Dean want to touch the chicken? What do we do about this chicken? Do we just leave it here?_

Followed by: _How can he tell what I’m thinking? Fuck, can he read my mind? God, he’s so fucking fluffy, I just wanna touch him—oh god, he can read my mind, he’s looking at me like all angry, is he gonna peck me? Should I kick him? Is it even a him? What’s his name?_

Castiel sighs, but it doesn’t come out as a sigh. Just a weird soft chicken clucking.

 _Oh god that’s fucking adorable_ from the pretty one. Whose name is apparently Dean?

Castiel does the strange nervous chicken shuffle, feathers ruffling. “So, your name is Dean. What about the moose? Moose, what is your name?”

The moose blinks rapidly, confused, and a little bit offended. “Err, uh… Sam.”

“What about you?” Dean asks, stepping forward excitedly.

Castiel ducks his head, pulling it in toward his body. He doesn’t want to have to run. He can hear the thoughts of _I wonder if I can keep him as a pet_ emanating from Dean. He doesn’t want to be a pet. He is an autonomous, responsible, adult human. He is not a pet. Well, okay, he’s not a human right _now_ , but he was. Is. Sort of?

“You can’t put a collar on me. I’m not a pet!” he hopes his voice portrays his anger, but judging by Dean’s reaction the emotion didn’t get through to the humans at all.

“Can you stop that?” the moose asks, irritated. Err, Sam. Whatever. Moose, Sam, same thing.

“I can’t control it! If I could I would! Mind reading is terrible,” he groans. Or, clucks. Whatever.

Dean’s grin lights up his face. “Can we name him?” he looks to Sam, excited. “He won’t give us his name so we can name him, right? How about Zep—” _pelin_. The latter half of the word was filled in by Dean’s thoughts.

“Castiel,” the chicken interrupts. “My name is Castiel, and you may _not_ name me after an antiquated mode of transportation.”

The pretty one looks confused. “It’s… err, a reference to a band…” he trails off, somehow understanding Castiel’s blank chicken face as one of disinterest. “…mode of transportation…? What?”

“Like a blimp,” Sam interjects.

Dean just shakes his head.

There is a stare down. Castiel sits down, fluffy, down-like feathers shifting in the wind. He is almost bowled over again. Well, no, he is. He gets pushed a foot or so and falls on his side and the moose lets out a snort of laughter. Dean just steps forward and picks him up, holding him to his chest. Castiel flaps his wings, indignant.

“Put me down!” he crows, wings clipping Dean in the face. Dean just manages to wrestle him in a hold that pins his wings to his body. Damn that witch for making him a _small_ chicken. A small, _fluffy_ chicken. He is startled by the gentle hand stroking down his neck and back, and he cranes his head to look up at the human. Hmm, even prettier up close. He squirms valiantly, managing to break free enough to peck Dean in the face. Dean just holds him tighter, further away from his body now.

“Ow! Fuck! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Maybe he’s mad because you picked him up and he told you not to?” the moose offers. “Also, you’re bleeding.”

Castiel preens. Yeah, fuck you pretty boy, he may be a chicken but he can still defend himself! Sort of.

“You’re a he, right?” the moose interrupts his self-praise session.

Castiel turns his attention to the stupid, large human. “Yes,” he answers, clearly irritated. Dean somehow manages to wrestle him into a one armed hold and bops him on the beak.

“ _Bad_ chicken. _Bad_. Pecking is _bad_!”

Is he fucking serious? Is the human seriously _scolding_ him?

“I’m not an animal!” he responds, attempting to flutter his wings menacingly.

Both the moose and the pretty boy scoffed.

“That’s funny, because you look like a chicken, walk like a chicken, and talk like a—okay, well, _sort of_ talk like a chicken. Which means you’re a chicken,” Dean answers with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Very clever,” Castiel grumps. “So now that you’ve captured me, what are you going to do to me?”

There is a pause. He hears both Dean and Sam thinking hard and gets a bit dizzy from it. “Stop thinking so loudly.” He squirms in Dean’s grasp. Dean finally pulls him back against his chest, and Castiel resigns himself to being held and _stroked like a cat_.

“Well, you’re a witch, right? And you're psychic? So maybe you can help us find the other witch… I mean, you’ve encountered her before, so you’re our best bet.”

Dean looks to the moose excitedly. “So we can keep him?”

“I’m right here!” he pecks Dean’s arm viciously for good measure. Dean bops him on the beak again.

“What did I say about pecking?!”

“Fuck you!”

The moose rolls his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More stuff happens, and it's pretty funny.

Dean isn’t sure exactly _why_ he had turned into a teenage girl upon seeing the fluffy chicken, but he isn’t about to argue. It’s just natural for people to want to squeeze fluffy things, right? That’s why they got puppies and shit. So, yeah, sue him, but he wants to cuddle the fuck out of that damn chicken, and he isn’t about to get in his own way.

Plus, the feistiness is adorable. The mind-reading is weird, but he’s willing to forgive that. Anyway, Cas the Chicken seems to have calmed down and submitted to its master, allowing him to carry the chicken back to their motel. They pass by a Wal-Mart on their way and he pulls into the parking lot, turning to Sam. “You need to get a basket.”

“What?”

“For the chicken,” he says, gesturing with his head to the chicken in Sam’s arms (because Sammy was _not_ allowed to drive his Baby). “And some blankets to lie in. Maybe some bird seed.”

“Uh…”

“Just do it,” Dean orders, glaring. He reaches forward to grab the chicken, who squawks, called him an asshole, and slaps his face with its wings. “Shhh, shhh, Cas. It’s okay. Shhh.”

The chicken pecks his hand roughly. “Fuck you! Put me down!”

Sam rolls his eyes, slipping out of the car and closing the door quickly so the chicken couldn’t make a break for it. He hurriedly makes the purchases, deposits them in the trunk, and gets back in the car.

They’re walking into the motel with their new purchases in no time, and Dean excitedly takes the time to line the nice basket with the blankets and set some birdseed out on a fancy plate Sam had purchased. He attempts to place the chicken in the basket. Castiel refuses.

He hops out, flapping his wings and falling out of the basket gracelessly, running under the table nearby, fluffing up his feathers in irritation.

“No!” he screeches, angrily. “I refuse!”

“Come on, chicken, it’s okay, the basket is safe,” Dean coos. Sam rolls his eyes. Castiel does _not_ cower in the corner.

“I’m not a pet! My name isn’t chicken, you dimwitted saddle-goose!”

Silence.

“You—what? Saddle-goose?”

If chickens could blush, Castiel would be blushing. “It’s a… wizard thing. Old world insults are still alive in the community,” he grumbles, clucks quiet and clearly irritated.

Sam looks interested. Dean, baffled. Castiel gives no fucks. He settles down further in the corner, ruffling his feathers and getting comfortable, still chicken-glaring out at the humans.

Dean frowns, pulling the basket close to the edge of the table, shoving it underneath a few inches. “For when you change your mind.”

Sam and Dean then get up to confer in the other corner, little glances catching on Castiel every now and then. Castiel closes his little chicken eyes and dozes, confident that if one of the humans gets too close he’ll hear their thoughts and their footsteps loudly enough that he can flap away quickly. He focuses on the thoughts of the squirrel outside, the human thoughts giving him a headache.

_Nut. Nut. Nut? OH FUCK A HAWK OH GOD OH FUCK oh it’s a leaf ok. Acorn? Lady squirrel! Mate. Must mate._ Castiel feels the disturbing wave of squirrel arousal and squawks in disgust, hopping away from the wall.

“Chicken?” Dean steps closer, conversation with Sam breaking off.

“Castiel!” the chicken growls. Screeches. Whatever.

“Cas, then. What’s up? Are you okay?”

Cas flaps a wing, a poor imitation of a lazy gesture toward the window. “Squirrels mating. Can hear their thoughts…”

Dean smirks. “Yeah? Not into squirrels? I guess not. So what does it for ya, lady chickens? Should I get you a hen calendar for you to ogle the ladies?”

Castiel turns his head, indignant. “I am _human_ , you frog. I am attracted to _humans_.” If chickens could sound haughty, he would sound haughty. Dean changes tactics, grinning.

“So what kind of lady humans do it for ya then?”

Castiel turns back to Dean, slowly, staring him down with his little chicken eyes. For some reason Dean seems to find him intimidating. Castiel feels smug.

“I prefer men.”

Silence.

“Ah… uh…”

Sam smirks, giving Dean an amused look.

“I really hope you are homophobic and kick me out of the hotel room so I can go back to finding my way home,” Castiel responds, waddling to the door. “I would quite like to _leave_ you stupid, overgrown chimpanzees.”

Dean rolls his eyes, strolling forward, grabbing Cas before he can scuttle away back under the table. He flaps his wings irately, and uselessly, because of _course_ he is a tiny, useless chicken, easily manipulated by strong, virile young men. Castiel shudders, feathers poofing up. Oh _god_ , is he suffering from some sort of disturbed Stockholm-syndrome thing? Already?

“Nah, Cas, I like ya. You’re just a chicken anyway.”

Castiel pecks at Dean’s fingers in irritation. “Let me down,” he grumbles, squirming in Dean’s grasp. The man just tightened his grip, reaches out to bop his beak in rebuke, and Castiel gives up with a defeated chicken-sigh. The beak-bop is humiliating, but there’s nothing he can do. “Bad chicken,” Dean mutters, quietly.

Sam somehow finds this all amusing. Dean turns around, facing his brother again, and Castiel turns his indignation on the moose. “I hope you trip, break your toe on the doorway, and tumble down a flight of stairs.”

“Oh come on now, Cas, that’s just cruel,” Sam replies with an entertained smile.

“I hope you don’t die, either,” Castiel continues. “I hope you lay at the bottom of the stairs, unable to call for help, bones broken in a dozen places, and then _bleed out_!”

Silence. He can feel Sam’s anxiety and Dean’s baffling glee at the thought. He swivels his head, looking up at Dean.

“Why do you find that funny, giraffe-eyelashes?”

“What did you just call me?”

“You have eyelashes like a giraffe,” Castiel explains with an air of boredom, squirming just to test Dean’s grip again. Alas, it is in vain, for Dean’s grip is like a vice. A gentle vice. But a vice nonetheless.

A moment of non-response, and then Sam and Dean both ignore Castiel’s comment and perplexing nicknaming and name-calling.

“Okay, so, we’ve got a plan, Cas,” Sam explains, sitting down on one of the motel beds. Dean takes his place in a chair by the table, hooking his foot in the box and pulling it out to sit nearby the chair.

Dean looks down at Cas. “Okay, you can stay here and I can hold you, or you can sit in the box.”

“Fuck you, why do you think I’d listen to you? I’m not a pet and you’re _not_ my master.”

“The _plan_ , Dean,” Sam growls, commanding the attention of the other two.

Castiel, refusing the indignity of lying down in the basket nest, ruffles the feathers he can and settles in Dean’s arms. Dean resumes petting him, and Cas resignedly admits to himself that it feels nice, and so he tolerates it. Dean makes cooing noises at him and Cas pecks his fingers again.

Nose-bop. Returning to back-stroking.

“You tell us what you know about the witch, Cas. Like, where was she last, what does she look like, what to look out for? So we can track her down. All we’ve found so far are hex bags. And you, so…”

Castiel, eyes closed, clucks in acknowledgement of hearing Sam’s words. “And then?”

“And then Dean and I go out and get her.”

Castiel opens one eye to look at Sam.

“You’re an idiot. Unfortunately, I have reason to want to keep you both _alive_ , so I won’t tell you anything and you won’t go looking for her. You couldn’t hope to defeat her.”

“We’ve killed witches before, Cas. This ain’t new.”

“Your grammar and vocabulary are terrible. It’s offensive.”

Dean bops Castiel’s beak again and Castiel viciously pecks Dean’s fingers, and arm, and whatever he can reach. Dean jumps, swearing at the sudden attack. “Fucking chicken,” he growls, grabbing Cas’s head. He is gentle, but still, having his _head_ caught in the large paws of this stupid human is disconcerting.

“You stop pecking, I let you go. Got it?”

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists!” Castiel screeches, voice muffled due to Dean’s hand being on his head and all.

“I’m not a terrorist, you dumb bird.”

“You are a terrorist, and this is Guantanamo Bay, and you are torturing me, and this is a violation of the Geneva Convention and human rights and _something_ , let me go!” Cas is clearly scrambling for justifications.

“Yeah, and I’ll water-board ya if you don’t behave!”

Castiel goes silent, Dean releases his hand, cradling Cas against his chest again, and Castiel closes his eyes in defeat. Fuck Dean, fuck Sam, fuck this motel, fuck their stupid large and noisy car, fuck that witch, fuck everything, fuck his life. “ _Fuck_ ,” Cas swears. He is ignored.

“So, what’s _your_ plan then?” Sam asks, directing his question to the witch-turned-chicken.

“You let me go, and I find a way to reverse this curse, and then _I_ find a way to kill the witch, and you go away forever and never come back.”

“You’re a chicken.”

“I’m a witch!” Castiel crows. “Not a chicken!”

“You’re in a chicken _body_ , then, Cas. What’re you gonna do? How’ll you fix the curse, huh? With your little chicken beak and chicken feet and no thumbs?”

Castiel is silent.

Sam sighs, rolling his eyes. “So we both help each other, which is what I was _suggesting_ , so what’s the problem?”

“You were _suggesting_ using me for information, and then leaving me here, alone, as a chicken, no way to get outside and no way to cure the curse.”

“We’d come back, Cas,” Dean murmurs quietly, stroking down Castiel’s head, and neck, and back. Castiel let out an unbidden chicken-purr, eyes closing in delight. He is placated by the pets.

“You will cure me,” Castiel orders, opening one eye to look at Sam, then opening both and tilting his head to look up at Dean. That stupid fucking dopey smile on the human’s face was going to make him hurl, if chickens could vomit.

When Sam and Dean agree, Castiel can’t feel anything but truth in their words and intentions.

“So… you’ll help?” Sam asks, hopeful.

Castiel clucks uneasily. “I guess,” he grumbles. “But I am hungry, and tired, and thirsty.”

“Oh! Yeah!” Dean sets Castiel down, shoving the basket-nest under the table, near the corner where Castiel was before, and the fancy plate of bird-feed underneath the table next. “I’ll uhh… do we have a bowl? For water?” _I don’t want my chicken to die_ Dean thinks, internally panicking. Castiel barely holds back the urge to peck violently. I am NOT his chicken!

Sam hesitates, thinking. “Maybe one in the car? Like one we use for rituals and spells or whatever?”

Castiel makes a noise of disgust. “ _Really_? A mortar?”

“Do you want water or not?” Sam asks, going to the door, opening and closing it with finality as he moves to search the car. _So ungrateful_ is Sam’s thought as he leaves the room.

Castiel waddles under the table, giving Dean a withering glare as he does so, and stares at the basket-nest. It looks comfortable… he hops up into it awkwardly, nearly falling into the birdseed dish, and like a cat, pretends that he didn’t stumble. Dean says nothing, but Castiel can still hear his internal laugh. Asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot begins sneaks itself into the story, and most of what I've written (20,000 words so far, but still writing) continues to be the plot moving on, with moments of fluffy (haha) filler here and there. If I continue posting around 2,000 words each chapter that should make it uhhh... 10 chapters in total so far? But some will probably be longer as the plot thickens and I hate cliffhangers so I will try to not give them to you.
> 
> Also, thank you to my very, very few readers. You have my undying gratitude. Not a lot of people are really attracted to humor and horror stuff, so anyone reading this are my ultimate favorite types of readers. 
> 
> I've got a question for anyone who wants to answer - I'm unsure of how often I should post chapters. Once a week on a designated day? Or every few days? I'm not going to do one every day, or multiple a day, unless I've lied and the chapter ends with a cliffhanger that I'll solve the next day. So, yeah. Is once a week a good speed, or maybe once every 3-4 days? Let me know~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean grow closer, and the plot thickens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story begins to move forward from here. The scary/"horror" aspect of it will be coming up soon, next chapter is around 3k words and the one after that is where it gets scary. Or at least I think it's scary. I had to stop writing it a few times because I was getting freaked out, but that might have had more to do with the fact it was 2am than anything.

“Okay, so… this is what you know, then: she doesn’t have a permanent base, she’s not working alone, and she’s _probably_ been in a few surrounding cities with paranormal ties.”

“Yes,” Castiel clucks. Was Sam an idiot? Isn’t that what he just said? Damn, uh… what did Harry Potter call them? Damn _muggles_.

“That’s… not very much to go on,” Sam says, sighing.

Dean shrugs, having pulled up some websites about haunted Wisconsin spots. Castiel has relocated to the table, perching precariously, as whenever he moves his little chicken feet tend to slip on the hard laminate surface. Dean points to one of the websites, displaying an article about Whitewater. “So what about this, Cas? Apparently this place is super haunted.”

Castiel levels a look at Dean which he hopes portrays his exasperation.

“I’m a fucking _chicken_ , you uneducated monkey. Chickens can’t _fucking_ read.”

Dean smirks, reaching out to bop Castiel’s beak. _Fucking adorable_ Dean thinks. Castiel flutters his wings, attempting to reach forward to peck Dean. He slips and falls instead, squawking gracelessly. He would have slid off the table if Dean hadn’t reached out and stopped him from doing just that. Castiel will _not_ thank him. No way. That would be going too far.

“Watch your language, birdie,” the stupid giraffe-eyelashed man responds. Sam groans at their little interaction.

“Focus.”

Cas clucks quietly, the equivalent of a sigh of a put-upon human.

“Do you want me to read it out loud to you?” Dean purrs, leaning in close. Cas pulls his head in, fluffing up his feathers in warning.

“ _Guys_!” Sam barks. “What’s our plan?”

“Visit the cities I have given you, obviously,” Cas rumbles, shutting his eyes. He is so _annoyed_.

“Sounds reasonable,” Dean responds, shrugging his shoulders. He pets Castiel absently. Cas gives up on responding with violence. Sam smirks at the affection.

“You’re only saying that because of your crush,” he responds, standing up and starting to pack their stuff up. “What’s the next stop, then?”

_Not a fucking crush, he’s a goddamn chicken, that’s gross, fuck_. Dean glares. _I wonder if he’s hot as a dude…_ he considers.

Cas chicken-groans, coming out as a loud, singular cluck. Dean smiles and pats him, scooping him up in his arms. Castiel is tired and doesn’t even try to escape.

_God he’s adorable_. “Awww, not even struggling anymore, good chicken!” Dean rewards Cas with a gentle pat on the head, and he at least finds the energy to respond by capturing a finger in his beak, biting down hard. “I’ll bop you again!” _I want to kiss him, like a puppy, so damn cute_.

Cas reluctantly lets go. “If you kiss me I’ll bite your tongue off.”

Dean scowls. “Why the fuck would I use tongue? You’re an _animal_.”

“I absolutely do not want to hear this conversation,” Sam says loudly, grabbing his bag and leaving the room in a hurry. “I’ll check us out!” he calls before shutting the door after him.

“So what do you look like as a human?” Dean asks, setting Cas down on a bed to start packing up. Fucking great, how will he hop down without embarrassing himself? He doesn’t even know how to fly yet.

“Fuck you,” Cas responds half-heartedly, fluttering his wings and sitting down, resting his eyes with a contented cluck. At least the bed is comfortable.

Dean finishes packing, scooping the birdseed back into the bag and dumping the water out, packing the food and bowl away. He sets the basket on the table, eyeing the chicken.

“I’ll buy you some actual chicken feed soon,” a pause. “Okay, so you have two choices. Sam can carry the basket out, and then carry you, and hold you the whole way to the next city, or he can place the basket in the foot well and you can sit in the basket.”

“If you crash I’ll die,” Cas hops backwards on the bed, away from Dean’s arms.

“You’ll die no matter what,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “In Sam’s hands or in the basket. And if you get caught you’ll go to a farm or something.”

Cas clucks, upset.

The chicken gives Dean a dirty look. If he sits in the basket he’ll probably tumble over at every stop and get sick. If he sits in Sam’s arms he will lose the sliver of dignity he has left.

“Why can’t I be free?”

“Because we need you,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

“In the car, I mean.”

_Silly chicken_. “You’ll get knocked over, dude.”

Castiel is disturbed to find that he prefers the idea of sitting in Dean’s lap as he drives over sitting in the embarrassing basket or in Sam’s arms. He shifts on his feet, doing a weird waddle-dance as he contemplates. How can he tell Dean that without… dying of humiliation?

“Well?”

“I will sit with you,” Castiel decides.

“That’s not an option, Cas.”

Castiel stumbles forward, ready to peck. “I’ll peck Sam, and get out of the basket and peck your ankles until they bleed.”

“Where the hell would you sit? You’ll get _knocked over_.”

Oh god. He closes his eyes. He feels like his head will implode from the need to blush. “In… ah… in your lap.”

_…what?_ “What?” Dean furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“ _You heard me_!”

“Uh… why?” _I should just agree. He’s so cute. And I can drive one-handed, I can pet him._

Castiel refuses to answer. “You have one choice. To be pecked or not to be pecked.”

Dean grins, reaching forward to scoop Castiel up without warning. The chicken squawks again. Being jostled is _not_ fun. “In my lap it is!” Dean says happily.

x

Castiel will not admit how much he likes being snuggled up to Dean while he drives to their next destination. He almost tumbles over a few times, but Dean’s gentle hand on his side, and absent petting keeps him upright and content. He clucks happily, closing his eyes and pulling his head in. He fluffs up his feathers and makes a nest of Dean’s lap. He will _not_ admit how much he likes it. No. Absolutely not. And he ignores the amused looks that Sam is shooting at him.

“So… don’t wanna be a pet, huh?” Sam clearly doesn’t believe.

_He definitely wants me_ Dean thinks, smug. You don’t even know, Dean. You don’t even know.

x

They pull into the Econo Lodge motel parking lot in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, check in, and settle into their new room, Sam pulling up the websites they had bookmarked on the laptop. “All right, so… apparently this town was cursed by the dude who founded it, back when he died. Some cult leader?” Sam taps the cracked linoleum of the table. “Apparently they all lived as a community and shared everything.”

“Like communism?”

Castiel was still held in Dean’s arms as Dean pulled the chair over to sit next to Sam.

“I guess?” Sam frowns and looks at Dean. “Does it matter?”

“The leader was Father Oschwald. Well-known,” Castiel clucks, scrambling to get up onto the table. Dean sets him down and Castiel clumsily waddles to the computer, looking at the pictures. “I forget I can’t read,” he grumbles irritably, sitting down. He taps the screen with one of his feet, nearly falling over. “That guy,” Castiel continues. “He was kicked out of the Catholic church for mystical practices.”

“Ahh, so he was a witch?” Sam says, leaning back. “That still doesn’t explain why _our_ witch was coming out here.”

“He came here and started his weird culty commune, and then what?” Dean asks, looking to Castiel. Castiel ruffles his feathers.

“He started the commune in Germany. They just moved here when they got excommunicated and persecuted.”

“Why the fuck would anyone want to come _here_?” Dean asks, incredulous. “Wisconsin sucks, man.”

“A lot of German settlers came here,” Castiel responds, turning to glare at Dean. Narrowing his eyes just made him look sleepy as a chicken. “And the reason people live here is food and beer,” Castiel attempts a shrug, which only results in his wings flapping minutely and him falling over on his side with a squawk.

Dean rights Castiel, patting him on the back. “Poor chicken,” he coos. _So adorable, I almost don’t want to find the cure so I can keep him like this…_

Castiel scuffles in the direction of Dean, pecking his arm aggressively. “You _will_ cure me, you pedestrian toad!” Dean bops Castiel’s beak in admonishment. “Fuck you! Fuck you both!” he scuttles back, toward the laptop, managing not to fall over this time.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You know anything else, Cas?”

“As far as I know he started out doing… hmmm, mind control sort of stuff? Not really _mind_ control, because that’s not actually possible. Just charisma magic. The magic of persuasion. He was good at that, and then there’s a rumor he made deals with demons to keep the commune flourishing,” Castiel answers, sitting down to think.

“So, demon deal, then 10-years-you’re-up type of death?”

“No, he lived much longer than that. Lived until his 70s, and moved here when he was around 50? If I remember correctly.”

“He could’ve made the deal when he was 60, still doesn’t rule that out,” Sam reasons.

Castiel shakes his head, clucking thoughtfully. “According to the stories, he set up his commune here and called the cult _The Association_ , and there was a lot of infighting. You know, people didn’t want to be here, angry they had to leave Germany, and they weren’t really prosperous. They arrived in late August, and the church was only half built by late October. Heat, hunger, then cold and hunger, and sickness, you know how it is. A lot of the settlers fell ill, and Oschwald had to control his congregation.”

“So he made a deal with a demon to… what, exactly?”

“Protection, I guess,” Castiel responds. “I would guess, health and prosperity, which is a lot to ask for but perhaps his position as a religious leader afforded him better treatment by the demons.”

“He could do more work for them in that position vs. just some random person of the streets.”

“Exactly.”

“What about the 10 years then?”

“I’m not really sure. Could have been another deal, or maybe the original provided longer terms… his death was strange, fell sick in winter of 1873. There was… weird activity on the eve of his death. Strange hauntings, noises, pounding on walls. The man that stood by Oschwald’s deathbed mentioned seeing Oschwald, ummm… what was the quote?” Castiel looks up, thinking.

“I hate dealing with cults, man,” Dean mutters quietly.

“I think, the man said… Oschwald would put his hands forward in a blessing? And then wave in a way that was dismissive, like dismissing somebody that wasn’t there.”

“Hell-hounds,” Sam and Dean say at the same time.

Castiel looks to the two brothers. “Likely. And the curse he supposedly cast on the town. Maybe the man at Oschwald’s side did what he could to hold the hell-hounds at bay, Oschwald casted his curse, then they finally got him. There were some weird things after his death, like his body not decaying, and he had to be moved multiple times.”

“So what was the curse about?”

“Apparently, after Oschwald’s death, natural disasters began happening more frequently, only in the town of St. Nazianz. Called them ‘weather incidents’.”

“And the last big one was in 2000, right? That’s what the article I read earlier was talking about,” Sam continues Castiel’s thought. “The…” Sam clicks through the tabs on the browser, finding the one he had been reading before. “They called it a ‘thunderstorm super cell moist microburst’.”

Dean snorts. “Helluva name.”

“They thought it was a tornado at first,” Castiel looks at Dean.

“Around $120 million in damage, a bunch of houses destroyed and cars totaled,” Sam interjects.

“Damn. That’s a lot,” is all Dean can say. He pauses. “Okay, so we know the history, why the hell is the witch _here_? And what is she doing? She was fucking with people in the last town, we thought she was maybe stealing some things but we couldn’t find any evidence.”

“Recon, if I had to guess,” Castiel cocks his head, thinking. “The hex bags that I had found weren’t deadly, just… incapacitating. Illusion magic let her sneak into places she wasn’t supposed to be.”

Dean smirks. “How is illusion magic passé if it’s still useful?”

“It’s cheap, requires no skill,” Castiel responds haughtily.

“Cheap, requires no skill, effective… still not seeing the downside here.”

“You’re uneducated and uncultured, so of course you wouldn’t see the problem.” If Castiel could retain tone in his stupid chicken clucky voice, his response would be acerbic.

Sam snorted in laughter, leaning back in his chair, and Dean just glared. “I guess we’ll leave you in the motel room while we go scope everything out, then.”

“Now now, don’t be hasty,” Castiel sounded almost _bored_. “You don’t know the legends, the area, and the spots of interest. If you want to waste time on research and wandering around, though, go ahead.”

“Better bring the chicken,” Sam chirps with taunting glee.

“How the hell am I going to explain carrying a goddamn chicken around?” Dean mutters, shaking his head.

“Therapy pet.”

“I’m not a fucking pet!” Castiel screeches.

“You act the part or you are left behind, Cas,” Sam says, eyebrow raised.

“Therapy pet?” Dean grumbles. “What the hell do I need a therapy pet for?”

“PTSD from the war or something, I dunno, make something up,” Sam waves his hand, getting suited up. “How far out to get to St. Nazianz, Cas?”

“Half hour or so. We should talk to some people first, ask about the curse and the cult, before heading to investigate the seminary and school.”

“And cemetery,” Dean reminds.

“I am so proud of you, Dean,” Cas says, cocking his little chicken head. His head floofs flopped as he did so. “That you managed to remember all of that despite your brain being so small.”

“I’ll sell you to a farm, Cas,” Dean warns, pointing at Castiel menacingly.

“You would never. You love me too much.”

_Damn, he’s got me there…_ Castiel has been practicing ignoring thoughts, and has gotten pretty good at it, but he still can’t manage to block out Dean’s more… _affectionate_ thoughts. Sam has taken to ignoring the pair. Castiel just hopes Dean doesn’t want to sleep with him. In the same bed. Cas is willing to sleep in the goddamn bird basket as long as it means he isn’t cuddled all night.

Dean scoops Castiel up in his grip, grinning. “All right, therapy chicken, off we go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. <3 All your comments last chapter really made my day/week/whatever. I hope you enjoyed this one!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I included one or two video links near the end of this chapter (within the text of the fic) to... better illustrate Castiel's reactions.

They are getting weird looks. Castiel is feeling quite self-conscious, though he supposes Dean should feel even _more_ self-conscious.

 _What’s that boy doin’ with that chicken?_ From a middle-aged soccer mom type woman.

 _Must be some of them gays, coming into town dressed all fancy… with a chicken._ From a farmer, a typical Wisconsin man, sandals and athletic socks on, cargo khaki shorts, and an oversized “funny” graphic t-shirt. Castiel can’t read as a chicken, but he recognizes the American flag and the gun on it. How predictable.

 _Are they movie stars?—Wow, they’re gorgeous—Look at that adorable chicken!—Should I pull down my shirt a bit?—Oh god, they’re looking over here!_ Castiel eyes the star-struck group of teenaged girls watching Sam and Dean (and Cas) make their way down the sidewalk. He wants so badly to mutter something to the brothers about it, but he has to play his part as a therapy chicken in public and _not speak_ , which is really more difficult than he initially thought it would be.

He spots a child running up to them, and feels sick with dread.

“Look at the chicken, mommy!”

“Yes, honey, you’ve seen chickens before, let’s leave the poor men alone.”

“Can I pet the chicken?!” the child asks excitedly. Dean is startled, Sam amused. Sam grabs Castiel, who bawks loudly and flaps his wings. No! _No!_ He gives Dean a panicked look as Sam holds Castiel close to the kid.

“Sure, kid, go ahead. His name’s Cas, he’s my brother’s pet chicken, so be careful.”

Castiel feels the kid’s grubby, sticky hands pat him, far too roughly for his comfort. He feels a few of his feathers being tugged out by the stupid child and he squawks, struggling in Sam’s grip. The child is startled and frightened, and starts crying, and Cas feels smug. Sam _bops Cas on the beak_ , and no, Cas is _not_ having that! He struggles more and breaks free, falling to the sidewalk and onto his side.

“Sam!” Dean shouts, and Castiel can feel the flattering concern over his wellbeing. He ruffles his feathers, waddling over to Dean’s feet and preens his feathers. Damn stupid moose. He looks up at Dean, pecks his shoe once, and Dean picks him up. “Don’t drop my… my therapy chicken,” Dean’s indignant tone of voice trails off into a meek, embarrassed one. Castiel finds he quite enjoys hearing the frightened child’s thoughts of dismay at how the big, scary chicken almost bit him. Fuck yeah. Fuck you, kid!

Sam just laughs, patting the kid on the head. “Sorry, he’s a grumpy chicken, he only likes my brother.”

Castiel does _not_ like Dean! He will scold Sam later for this. They pass the group of people, heading toward the library, and Sam smirks. “Poor grumpy chicken, how are you doing?”

“I hope you get run over by a semi-truck and break all the bones in your legs and are paralyzed for life with debilitating phantom pains, and PTSD that makes you unable to function in real life,” Castiel hisses. Well, it’d be a hiss if chickens could hiss. He is delighted at Sam’s distressed thoughts. “And don’t you _ever_ ,” Cas pauses, for emphasis. “ _Ever_ bop me on the beak again. _Never_. I will murder you.”

“Why can Dean bop you on the beak and I can’t?”

“He’s _specia—_ oh fuck. I mean,” Cas panics, Sam and Dean laugh. “It’s because he’s so pretty, I… only let pretty people bop me?”

Fuck fuck fuck this is _not_ going his way.

“So you think I’m pretty, huh Cas?” Dean’s grin is sharp and Cas shudders, squirming in Dean’s grasp.

“No. Absolutely not!”

“Hm, haven’t even known me a whole day and you already love me,” Dean continues. Sam laughs.

“Aw, I think your therapy chicken has a _crush_ on you.”

“I will _murder you_!” Cas barks. It comes out as more of a bok-bok-bo-BOK type noise.

Sam and Dean are in stitches, Cas jostled by Dean’s body-shaking laughs. He is resigned to his sad fate. These stupid brothers had better keep their word about curing his curse.

x

They make the rounds, talking to townspeople, getting the story and first-hand accounts of the hauntings and strange things. Talk to old people who ruminate about the town's dark history before responding to Sam and Dean’s questions, and then they decide to grab food before returning to the motel to plan out their night and the next day. Of course, who is going to let two men in suits into a diner holding a _chicken_? Nobody. So Sam goes in to order take-out, and Dean sits with Cas on a bench, petting the chicken absently. Castiel is _not_ purring.

Dean’s cellphone rings. He answers it. Castiel can’t really hear what’s being said on the other end, all he can hear is what sounds like frustrated words, Dean’s laughter and teasing about… something about a girl and being distracted by pretty eyes?

“See, Charlie, this is why you don’t Internet stalk your dates before the actual date,” Dean’s voice is tinged with amusement.

Castiel hears the faint yell of ‘Winchester’ and some more teasing, and they say their goodbyes, and Castiel is not panicking about realizing he is with _the_ Winchesters. He is being held by Dean _fucking_ Winchester, and Sam _fucking_ Winchester is getting them takeout.

Dean pats Castiel’s head. “Charlie’s having lady problems, stalking her dates beforehand and then revealing information during the date… being a computer genius has its downsides, I guess,” he says with a quiet laugh.

Castiel looks around. Nobody on the sidewalk. Good.

“You killed my friend last year,” Castiel says, stepping back on Dean’s lap to look up at him. He is frustrated by the confused look Dean gives him. “I didn’t know I was being held captive by Sam and Dean _Winchester_.”

“Held captive? You mean _helped_ , right? What the hell were you gonna do without us? You can’t read and you have no thumbs. You’re a fucking _chicken_ , Cas,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “You can curse us or whatever when you’re back to normal.”

“Are you going to kill me when you’re done with me?” Cas asks quietly. He is too young and pretty to die. Damnit.

Dean shrugs. “Not unless you _actually_ curse us and try to kill us. Could be useful having a witch friend, yeah? Especially with Rowena on the loose.”

“ _Rowena_?!” Castiel screeches. “You know _Rowena_?! Fuck, fuck, this is _so_ much worse than I thought, oh god, just sell me to a farm now, I’m too young and pretty to be murdered by _Rowena_!”

Dean is perturbed, even more confused by Castiel’s reaction. “Relax, dude, she’s got some weird fixation with keeping us alive, it’s inconvenient for her son or something, she likes the drama.”

“… her… her son.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, rolling his eyes at his chicken.

“The King of Hell. _That_ son?”

“You know about that, then?”

Castiel closes his eyes, sitting down. Fuck.

“I am regretting my existence right now.”

“Man, it’s just Crowley, he’s harmless!”

“Fucking— _harmless_?! Do you know how many—no, you know what, I can’t deal with this. I don’t even… I don’t even know how to process this. You know Rowena, she likes to keep you alive, because you’re… _acquainted_ with the King of Hell and supposedly meddle in his affairs, whom you think is _harmless_ , and… and you think I could somehow be useful, because the… like, the most _powerful witch ever_ is alive and on the loose? What the hell do you think I could even do to help you? I fucking grow plants. _That_ is my power. I grow plants, and flowers, and make people happy, and cure basic illnesses, and find pet cats for people. I am _useless_ , Dean. Absolutely _useless_.”

“Illusion music is passé but somehow growing flowers and saving cats isn’t?”

“I _help people_ , Dean! I don’t… meddle in the Dark Arts, or deal with complicated things, I—” Castiel shuts up, as Sam and another person exit the diner. Dean looks… discombobulated.

“Man, Sam, we’ve got a lot to talk about with Cas here when we get back to the motel,” he says, standing and giving Sam a _look_. Castiel is quiet the whole way back, and dreads the ‘ _talk_ ’ that is going to happen later. Thankfully, they pass a Farm and Fleet on the way home, and Dean shells out for fancy chicken feed and a… _bird_ watering bowl.

They are driving back, Castiel situated comfortably on Dean’s lap, although he is slightly stiff with anxiety. “We’ll eat first, then we talk,” Dean says, patting Cas’s side. The hollow tapping sound made by Dean patting his tummy just right is disconcerting. Dean and Sam don’t seem to notice. He is so hungry.

“What are we gonna talk about?” Sam asks, curious.

“Apparently Cas is some sort of plant witch and is afraid of Rowena? He heard Charlie say ‘Winchester’ and freaked out.”

“I suppose I would be freaked out too… we did knock out that witch coven a few months ago.”

Castiel wails at the reminder. “My _friend_! You _murdered_ him!”

“Yeah? One of the witches involved in abducting kids and pets and sacrificing them and eating their hearts for power?”

Castiel is silent. “Well… he always was a bit _weird_ , I suppose.”

Dean sighs, Sam sighs, they both roll their eyes, and Castiel chicken-sighs. “Just _a bit_ weird?” Dean prompts.

More silence. “I’m… a bit of a shut-in.”

“You don’t say,” Sam says, an air of sarcasm in his words. “How long has it been since you’ve been _social_ with someone, Cas?”

Castiel thinks about the question for a moment. “What is your definition of ‘social’?” he has to ask.

“Talking to someone for more than 15 minutes about something more than just one topic,” Dean answers, lightning-quick.

“Maybe…” Cas resumes thinking. “Maybe 20 years? Give-or-take?”

“What?!” Sam splutters.

“How old are you?! Oh fuck, I’ve got some weird old-man turned chicken on my lap, oh _gross_ ,” Dean shouts.

“Calm down,” Cas clucks grumpily. “My appearance stopped aging… well, ages ago. Like Rowena. Except for my timeless beauty came about by being blessed by a Saint for my ‘good works’, as she put it.”

Dean calms, albeit barely.

“How _old_ , Cas?” Sam urges.

“I think… I think I was born in the 1700s maybe? I’m about a century younger than Rowena. I think my birthday is some time in Summer, maybe. It was hot when I was born. My mother succumbed to heat sickness and died not long after I was born.”

Sam and Dean are silent for a moment. “I’m sorry,” Dean says quietly.

“Why are you—Oh! Because your mom died, yes, I've heard about that. Thank you for your concern, however it has been over 300 years and I am quite ‘over it’, as you would say.”

“Wow, callous,” Sam says, shocked.

Castiel ruffles his feathers in a way that Sam and Dean now interpret correctly as a sort of shrug. “I’m an old and grumpy witch.”

“So you’re 300, and you look how old?”

“30-ish, I suppose. That’s about when I learned how to extend my life, and met the Saint when I was around 100.”

They pull up in the motel parking lot.

“This is so confusing and weird,” Dean mumbles, turning the car off and leaning back in his seat.

“Let’s just… let’s just eat. Then we can… talk, or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, picking Cas up and leaving the car, grabbing the chicken feed and locking the car before they head into the room. Dean sets up Cas’s food and water in the corner on the floor, and sits down at the table to eat.

“I’m not a dog!” Castiel complains.

“Yeah, Cas, I can see that,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

“I will not eat on the floor like a dog. You will set me on the table. I shall eat there.”

“You're a dirty animal, I’m not putting you on the table where we _eat_.”

Castiel is silent, shuffling to the side, staring at Dean with a chicken death-stare.

“Uh… Dean, you probably shouldn’t have called him dirty.”

Dean shrugs, turning his back on Cas. “He _probably_ shouldn’t have been all flippant about…” he shook his head. “You know.”

“He’s going to curse us.”

“If I’m so _dirty_ , Dean, I suppose you will just have to give me a bath,” Castiel counters. “And I _apologize_ if I offended your delicate human sensibilities. You’ll have to remember it has been over _twenty years_ since I’ve had extended social contact with people. _People_ , not just witches.”

Dean turns back to Castiel with an air of annoyance, standing up and grabbing Castiel roughly. “All right, you stupid chicken, _bath time_ ,” he growls. Sam gives Dean a look of alarm, standing, unsure how to proceed. Dean points a warning finger at his brother. “You sit down and eat, I’m handling this alone.”

“You will—I will not suffer the indignity of being _bathed_ by the filthy, large paws you call your hands!” Dean tightens his hold on Castiel as the chicken flaps his wings desperately, pecking what bits of skin he can reach. Dean is resolute in appearing unaffected, and is successful.

“I’m dirty, you’re dirty, we can clean up together,” Dean enters the bathroom, shutting the door with vigor and sets Castiel down, starting the bath up. He gives Castiel a wicked look.

“Y-you… you don’t even have chicken shampoo!”

“That’s okay, I can just use a toothbrush and scrub your feet.”

Castiel squawks, struggling to get behind the toilet, before he realizes he’s trying to get behind the _toilet_ , and falls flat on his chicken-face trying to scramble away from it. Dean can’t help but let out a bark of laughter.

“God, you’re adorable,” he mutters. “Annoying, rude, and adorable.”

“ _You’re_ the one who has a crush on _me_ ,” Castiel responds bitterly.

“If you’re as hot as you are cranky, probably.”

Castiel and Dean are both silent as Dean calls Cas’s earlier bluff, bathing him in the few inches of lukewarm water. He doesn’t get the chicken’s feathers wet, just cleans his feet gently, and Cas shuts his eyes as if not looking and ignoring what is going on will make it not real.

x

“So… you said we had a lot to talk about, Dean?”

“Ah, yeah. About the Rowena and Crowley stuff,” Dean waves his hand in the air lazily. Castiel and his chicken feed are now on the table, as previously demanded. Dean has been so kind as to set a towel down for Castiel to sit on so he doesn't slide all over the slippery table, and they have both decided that they will never speak of the Bathing Incident again. _Especially_  after Dean’s gentle drying of Castiel’s feet with a blow-dryer and a washcloth made Castiel purr and Dean laugh and Castiel pecked the hell out of his hand in retribution.

Sam had asked about it when they re-entered the room, raising an eyebrow at the bandage wrapped around Dean’s hand. Dean shook his head, glancing warily at Castiel, and had decided to pander to him for the rest of the night. So. Towel on the table, gentle pets, refusal to speak about the Bathing Incident, and promises of chicken treats.

“You shall buy me chocolate,” Castiel decides suddenly, changing the topic. He misses chocolate. He misses human food. Chicken feed just… isn’t the same.

Dean gives him a funny look. “Yeah, sure, we’ll get you a candy bar or somethi—”

“ _No_ , Dean. Castiel, you can’t have chocolate,” Sam says, giving the chicken a stern look.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Watch your language,” Dean admonishes, bopping Cas on the beak. Cas bites him. “ _Motherfucker_ ,” Dean growls under his breath.

“ _Because_ , you idiots, chocolate has theobromine in it.”

Blank looks.

“It’s toxic to animals, okay?”

“I’m not an an—”

“Castiel, you are a chicken. You’ll just have to deal with that until we can find a way to change you back.”

Castiel pouts, as much as a chicken can pout. Dean gives him an apologetic look. “I can try to find chicken treats?”

“Fuck you,” Castiel clucks half-heartedly.

“Back on topic!” Sam claps his hands to get their attention. “You two are like kindergartners,” Sam says resignedly.

“Yeah, okay, Rowena, Crowley, apparently it freaks Cas out.”

“ _Of course_ it freaks me out! Do you know how powerful she is?!”

“Well…” Dean and Sam exchange looks. “I mean, yeah. We’ve seen what she can do, and been uhhh, _in the way_ , so to speak, of her arguments with her son,” Sam answers.

“ _The King of Hell_! That’s another thing! You’re _friends_ with him?” Castiel asks incredulously. “How can you—aren’t you hunters? I thought you were hunters? Don’t hunters kill demons?!”

Dean speaks this time. “Man, Cas, calm down. He stays out of our way, we stay out of his way, if his demons get in _our_ way we kill them, and occasionally we do each other favors. You know, the enemy of my enemy is my enemy? Or something?”

“Your friend,” Cas responds, sighing.

“Huh?”

Sam is facepalming.

“The enemy of my enemy is my _friend_ , Dean.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“No, you said 'the enemy of my enemy is my enemy'.”

“What? That makes no sense. Why would I say that? I definitely said friend.”

“No, you _clearly_ said enemy! Sam, he said enemy!” Cas turns his fluffy head to the floppy-haired moose.

“Dean, you did say enemy.”

“No, I _didn’t_ , you two are just hearing things.”

“We did not, you vexing prole!” Castiel squawks.

“What the— _'vexing_ _prole_ ' _?_ Really?”

“Shut the hell up,” Sam groans, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “I don’t get what the issue is. We know it’s messed up, Cas, but that’s our life. You know, start the Apocalypse, end the Apocalypse, some shit with Knights of Hell and Men of Letters, Dean turned into a demon, et cetera.”

“I am… those aren’t rumors? Oh god, I did not need to know that. I did not want to know that. I can never un-know that. And now I am even more freaked out,” Castiel shudders, turning to face away from both of them and ducking his head under the corner of the towel he is sitting on.

Sam and Dean give him a moment. Two moments. Three moments. Okay, that’s enough moments.

“Quit being a drama queen, Cas, just deal with it. If we lived through all of that you’ll probably be fine,” Dean reaches over to poke Cas in the side. He flutters his wings, startled, and falls off the table with a thump.

Castiel [makes an angry, raptor-like noise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uYNTOpOhBo) and scuttles away to his little chicken basket to hide. “I am finished with this conversation. I am just going to pretend you are not who you are, and if Rowena and her _son_ , the _King of Hell_ , show up, I will hide and you will deal with them.” He is facing away from Dean. He stands suddenly, spinning around, sticking his head out of the basket to look up at Dean. Dean raises an eyebrow. “You are going to pay for pushing me off the table,” he clucks darkly. “I don’t know what I’ll do yet, but when I do it, you won’t know it, and then you’ll find out later, and it will be something bad.”

Dean smirks, rolling his eyes and turning back to Sam. “Yeah, whatever, Cas. Go take a nap while the grownups talk.”

Sam and Dean quickly begin laying out a plan of action, leaving Cas to lick his wounds in quiet. He’s still hungry. He makes a noise, trying to get the attention of the men. No luck. He clucks a bit louder. Still nothing.

There’s… he didn’t want to have to resort to this, but he is hungry and hungry chickens need to eat. He crows.

“Jesus fuck!” Dean yells. They both jump, the laptop goes flying off the table and the dish with the chicken feed is knocked down violently, shattering. Somehow the laptop is unhurt. “What the _fuck_ , Cas? What now?” _I want to murder him, I changed my mind, I don’t like the stupid fucking—can you hear my thoughts, Cas? Huh? This is what I want to do to you_ and Dean transmits some very disturbing imagery to Castiel. The chicken shudders.

“That is animal abuse and I will report you to the authorities,” he grumbles. “I am hungry, prepare me another dish of food.”

Sam clenches his jaw, standing up aggressively and glaring at Castiel. “I am _so_ close to just chucking you out of the motel and hoping you get eaten by raccoons,” he growls, taking the bag of chicken feed and digging out a handful, dropping it on the ground by the chicken.

“I won’t eat off the—”

“You will eat where I goddamn tell you to eat or you’ll be plucked and fed to wild dogs, you feathery asshole.”

“ _Rude!_ ” the chicken responds, but Castiel also knows when to pick his battles. He wisely keeps quiet after that, struggling through the indignity of pecking chicken feed off the ground. He hops out of his basket to chase after it, [scratching at the ground](https://youtu.be/hP2UkqRzcmA?t=3m) with his cute little chicken feet subconsciously. It’s animal instinct, really. If he were a real chicken out in the wild, he would be scratching in the dirt for bugs to eat. He doesn’t notice himself doing it every few seconds, but Sam and Dean do. Sam pulls out his phone to record a video, for blackmail later, Castiel none-the-wiser. They return to planning and Castiel eats in blissful ignorance of the goings-on behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bigger than normal chapter for making you wait so long for an update~
> 
> also, it starts getting scary from this point on, so... don't read with the lights off or something I guess.

They head out again in the early morning, around 3am, to explore the supposedly haunted areas. Their first destination is JFK Prep.

“It’s abandoned, right?” Dean asks, jittery. Castiel, dozing in Dean’s lap, clucks in confirmation. He has chosen to forgive Dean for his earlier actions. _For now_.

“We should still be careful. The people who own the building don’t really want people trespassing,” Castiel warns.

“How do you know that? You’ve never been here,” Sam asks, confused.

“I know many things, stupid human.”

“ _You’re_ human,” Sam retorts.

“I am a superior form of human.”

“You grow _plants_. Your magic is like, parlor tricks.”

Castiel rises, tumbling a bit as he turns around to hop down from Dean’s lap, rushing over to Sam. He slams into Sam’s side, accidentally, and then pecks it viciously.

“ _Illusion_ magic is parlor tricks! I do good for society! Do not presume to know the importance of my magic; you are incapable of understanding it with your dumb, pedestrian brain!” Castiel screeches, pecking again.

“Ow, fuck, Dean, do something!”

Dean’s reply is a smirk, eyes not leaving the road. Castiel crows triumphantly, leaving Sam rubbing his side in pain. “I’m fucking bleeding, you stupid chicken!”

“Aw, now Sam, that’s not very nice,” Dean coos. Castiel pecks Dean’s thigh lightly, just to grab his attention. Unfortunately and to his great dismay, he cannot climb into the man’s lap unassisted. Dean glances down, reaching with one hand to gently push the chicken-witch up and back onto his lap. Castiel sits in the junction between Dean’s legs, ruffling his feathers and sinking back into dozing.

 _Fucking adorable_ Dean thinks.

Sam seethes. _Goddamn fucking stupid chicken, I want to fucking pluck out all his feathers and fry him in a goddamn pan_

“You would get better results roasting me,” Castiel responds to Sam’s threatening thoughts. “So if you are going to think homicidal thoughts, I would prefer them to be more logical. It physically pains me that you are so very dumb.”

Sam exhales violently, turning to look out the window with his jaw clenched. Castiel clucks in amusement, and Dean pats his side. “Don’t worry Cas, I won’t let him cook ya. Need my _therapy_ chicken.”

Cas just snuggles closer to Dean. Fuck. When did he get so… domesticated? Dean rewards Cas with pets and neck scritches. If chickens could purr, Castiel would be purring. Instead, they make weird rumbly-clucking-cooing noises, and so that is the sound that he emits. Dean’s smirk turns into a quiet laugh and a genuine smile. Castiel magnanimously decides to ignore Dean’s reaction.

x

They park the car a bit farther down the road than any of the trio would like, but they really need to _not_ get caught trespassing and fined, and the sleek, black muscle car is, sadly, very noisy. They get out of the car, Dean groaning at the temperature and rubbing his arms. “Damn, when did it get so cold?”

“Probably around the time the sun went down,” Castiel answers blandly, waddling carefully in the direction of the abandoned building. He is quite cold as well, but he isn't about to admit it to anyone. His feathers fluff up subconsciously, an autonomic response to the cold. So he’s a bit surprised to be suddenly blasted with an image of chicken-him wearing a puffer jacket. He stumbles over some larger pebbles and squawks. “You _will not_ put me in clothing,” he hisses threateningly.

“Aw, but you’d be so cute in a little scarf and booties,” Sam pipes up. Castiel is unimpressed with his level of snark.

“All right, chicken, you’re walking too damn slow, so I’m gonna carry yo—”

“You will do _no such thing_ ,” Castiel responds haughtily. “I am my own person and require no assistance.”

Sam and Dean share a look, shrug, and start walking at normal pace. Castiel, with his little chicken body and little chicken legs, has to run to catch up. He did not think this through.

“You are walking so quickly,” he grumbles. “Are you punishing me?”

Dean rolls his eyes, turning quickly to grab Castiel, tightening his grip as the chicken flips out and flaps his wings wildly. “You’re holding us up, Cas, I’m carrying you whether you like it or not. We’ve got to be quick.”

Castiel grumbles, Sam shakes his head at their interaction, and Dean just continues walking in the direction of the building. Now that he doesn’t have to watch where he’s going, Castiel takes advantage of it and looks around at his surroundings. It’s dark, very dark. The clouds obscure the stars and the sliver of waning moon left. At least they aren’t headed into a full moon, but the end of the moon phase and beginning of a new one are just as dangerous. Great in normal situations, for when Castiel is cleansing or encouraging his new plants to grow, but not so great when you’re dealing with witches who may or may not be aware of your presence and who may or may not take issue with the fact that you are pursuing them. To kill them.

The waning moon invites release, completion, letting go, and precedes the dark moon, in which the energies of the completion of a cycle, a definitive _ending_ for that phase, are at play. The release of toxic energies, ending bad habits, clearing out in preparation of a new growth—Castiel would have welcomed it pre-chicken. The new moon phase that follows the dark moon is, generally, Castiel’s favorite. Encouraging new growth, planting new seeds, beginning new adventures, new life—it’s when Castiel’s magic is at its strongest. The dark moon, the energy of ends, is when it’s at its weakest. So, Castiel is more than a bit concerned. He is lucky, in a way, that he is a chicken—Sam and Dean can’t get a read on his body language (because he’s a damn chicken), so they can’t tell that something’s bothering the witch. He has to figure out how to warn his tickets out of animal-ville (Sam and Dean) to be careful, though.

“The moon is waning.”

“That’s nice,” Sam sounds uninterested.

“No, it’s—the magic of the moon.”

“We’re not headed into a full moon, what does that matter?” Dean asks, loud voice echoing in the night. For some reason Castiel is treated to an image of a young animated girl in a strange school uniform with blond hair made up into two meatball-like shapes on her head. She's wearing a tiara and pink boots. He thinks it's coming from Dean. Castiel is  _very_ confused.

Sam hisses a quick “speak more quietly” at him, shaking his head.

“The moon always has an effect on the earth, you pea-brained idiots. You should know this. Like tides.”

“Yeah, Cas, we know how tides work.”

Castiel’s exasperated sigh came out as a quiet raptor-like rumble. “The new moon is about beginnings, planting new seeds, the first stages of growth. It can be extrapolated many ways,” he begins, regretting his life choices. If only he had chosen to join the Order instead of become a witch. Then he wouldn’t have to put up with such monumental stupidity. He could see how these men had started the Apocalypse, how could they not, with how pitiably ignorant they are? It also explains why Rowena and Crowley don’t mind them being alive—they are like sheep, stupid and cuddly looking and amusing to tease. But what isn’t clear to Castiel is how had they _stopped_ the Apocalypse, how they survived any of that and any of the tasks that came after. He supposes perhaps the rumors of angels are true after all. “Is it true you know the Archangel Gabriel?” he asks.

Sam and Dean respond at the same time: “Wha—huh? How do you go from tides to moons to angels?” and “Yes, and he’s an asshole and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I see,” Castiel responds, reminding himself to look into the matter later. “Anyway, the new moon is about beginnings and first stages of growth. The waxing moon is the cycle of growth—the energy grows stronger, things progress, et cetera. Waxing gibbous, that’s the phase right before the full moon, is good for minor stuff. You don’t need the full power of the full moon, so you do the little things, sometimes preparations for larger spells you’ll cast during the full moon. The full moon—you know all about that. Full power, heightened psychic awareness, more powerful spells, supernatural creatures do their thing, whatever. Waning gibbous is that phase just after the full moon, banishing rituals are popular, you begin clearing out the old to make room for the new. Waning moon in general is, well, like the tide receding: you hit the climax and then you come back down, slowly.”

Dean smirks. _Climaxes. Like orgasm. I need to get laid, I wonder if there’s any hot chicks in this town or if they’re all weirdo religious types and Walmart creatures?_

“How rude and childish, Dean,” Castiel responds, sounding pained. He continues. “The dark moon comes next—that is the part right before the new moon. Finality, an end to bring in the new, then comes the new moon, and the cycle starts over.”

“I’ve never heard of dark moon before,” Sam answers, intrigued.

“It’s—I suppose you wouldn’t, as it doesn’t really affect anything for hunters. In the new moon, you can see hints of the… well, the new moon. Hints of the cycle restarting. A faint crescent of light.”

“I haven’t looked closely. So new moon is like, right at the beginning, you can see a little light?”

“It’s almost imperceptible. I’m not sure if the mundane can actually detect anything or if it’s a result of being a witch that makes us sensitive to it.”

“The mundane?” Dean gives Castiel a confused look.

“Like a muggle,” Sam answers. Castiel is not about to ask what a muggle is, because frankly, he doesn’t care. “So then the dark moon would be… when you can’t see anything at all?” the moose continues.

“Yes, exactly. You show promise, Sam, unlike the vacuous oaf holding me.”

“I’ll drop you,” Dean warns. Castiel isn’t about to push him. “So why are we talking about moons again?”

“I would say that you have the memory of a gold fish, but that would be an insult to gold fish. More like… an insect,” Castiel says conversationally. “Perhaps a bee?”

Dean loosens his hold on Castiel, who scrabbles to get closer. “It’s—you have to be aware because of the ways witches use magic. I’d be preparing for new growth right now, someone with more malicious intentions would be preparing for something very different,” he adds hastily.

They’ve turned up a path and are close approaching the building at this point. Dean resumes his tighter hold on the chicken.

“So basically, ‘be careful because witches are powerful’?” Dean is dispassionate.

“Both of you need to stop bickering like an old married couple,” Sam grumbles. They approach the front door of JFK Prep.

“Well this is creepy,” Dean says, looking up at the building. “All right, no point in wasting time,” he sets Castiel down. “Just gotta pick the lock and boom, we’re in.” So he does just that, they enter, and Sam makes sure to close the door behind him, clicking on the flashlight. The sound echoes in the quiet, Sam and Dean spend a few moments exploring the small entryway, and Castiel shuffles his weight, feeling a heavy sense of dread, almost like a weight on his back.

“Do you feel that?” he clucks out into the dark.

“You feelin' a cold spot?”

“No, it’s—something dark, like… like somebody’s just put a backpack full of rocks on my back and instead of a physical heaviness it’s like…” Castiel isn’t sure how to describe it. “Like it’s making me paranoid? I feel kind of nauseous as well.”

Sam and Dean exchange looks. “I mean, it feels a little creepy in here, but I don’t feel any of that,” Dean responds.

“Maybe it’s the being a psychic chicken witch thing and you’re just sensitive to energies?” Sam offers.

Castiel shudders, fluffing up his feathers. “I don’t like it. Dean, pick me up. You will carry me.”

Dean rolls his eyes, reaching down to pull the chicken into his arms. He shuffles his hold until they find something comfortable. “What if we get attacked and I need to drop you?” he asks as they head deeper into the building, past the entry way. They take a left down a hallway.

“Don’t jinx us,” Sam groans. “Should we split up? This place is huge.”

“No! No. No splitting up. Bad idea,” Castiel squawks. “Very bad idea. Stay together. This is—the feeling is getting worse. Can chickens vomit?” he is feeling a bit panicky and burrows deeper into Dean’s hold, shoving his head into the man’s jacket as if to hide.

“Woah, man, don’t vomit on my clothes!”

“I’m not going to vomit,” Castiel responds, voice muffled, and he is shivering.

“You okay, Cas? Are you cold?” Dean stops walking and Sam stops after a few steps, looking back at them.

“No, no, it’s just—I can’t stop it, I feel like I’m having an allergic reaction to this place.” Castiel refuses to admit he lets out a sad little chicken-whimper, and Dean shuffles things around so that he can carry Castiel covered up by jacket, zipping it up. Cas has enough room to pop his head up through the opening and watch as they resume walking, a bit more cautiously than before. The stop at the end of the hallway. To the right is another expanse of hallway, and to the left a much shorter hallway with a door on the left leading to another room.

“Should we be opening doors?” Sam asks, looking to Dean. “What are we even looking for?”

“Ghosts, I guess. Something weird. Maybe whatever it is that’s making Cas feel so weird.”

“Do you think it could be a hex bag or a curse or something?” Sam directs his question to the chicken-witch this time.

Cas pops his head up, clucking in thought. “It doesn’t feel like magic,” he responds after a beat. “It just feels like something… malicious energy, a lot of it, feels stronger in some spots.”

“Should we try to find out where it feels strongest?”

Castiel does  _not_ want to do that. Not at all. “Yes, probably,” he admits. This is why he does good witch things. Like growing plants, and saving kittens, and casting finding spells. He isn’t made for this dark, heavy stuff. Which is also why he avoids other witches, and the witch guilds, and pretty much people in general. It would have been much more appropriate to transform Castiel into a cat, because the term ‘scaredy-cat’ is quite aptly suited for him.

“All right, then you’ll be our dowsing rod,” Sam decides. He gestures to each hallway. “Which way, Cas? Down the long creepy hallway, or the short creepy hallway and the door?”

Castiel has to think for a moment, letting himself feel that weight, which way it was pulling.

“It’s… deeper in the building. Upstairs, I think?”

“I’ll see if there’s a set of stairs behind it,” Sam jogs to the door, opens it, flashes his light inside. “Just a closet,” he says after a moment, closing the door and returning to Dean and Cas. “Down the creepy hallway, then.”

“Keep an eye out for stairs,” Castiel murmurs.

They head down the hallway, and a gust of cold air makes its way down the hallway, rushing past the trio. Sam and Dean stop, looking at each other, and looking back up and down the hallway. “Ghosts?” Sam asks, shifting nervously. “Should we even be in here? We don’t know where anyone is buried, if we get caught by ghosts we’re kind of screwed.”

“I think it was just wind, man,” Dean answers slowly.

Castiel makes a nervous clucking noise, pulling his head back into Dean’s jacket. “None of the windows are open,” he says, burrowing closer. Dean leans to the side so he can get a better look at the windows lining the hallway.

“Maybe there are some that are open further down, though?”

Castiel pops his head back out, cocking it to the side as he inspects the nearest window. “Are the windows all the same? Because I don’t think the windows even open. There are no latches.”

Sam moves nearer to the window, inspecting it more closely and then moving to the next one and the next one, doing the same. “Cas is right, no latches. These don’t open.”

“So either a ghost or a window is broken up ahead.”

“I hate this,” Cas wails miserably. “That’s what I get for trying to play the hero and confronting that witch. For trying to talk to people in general. My people skills are so rusty that they have begun to disintegrate.”

Dean rolls his eyes, moving forward again. “Calm down, you prima donna.”

Instead of arguing, Castiel chooses to be silent. He’s too freaked out to be able to focus on anything other than the heavy, dark feeling enveloping him anyway. They pass by a door on the right, and pause, back still facing it. “Did you…” Dean looks to Sam and they slowly turn around, looking at the space between the bottom of the door and the floor. It almost looks as if there is a light on inside, except for the faint light spilling into the hallway from the crack in the door has a blue tint and the electricity for the building has been shut off for years.

“I feel very cold,” Castiel says quietly, shivering in Dean’s jacket.

“Yeah. Ghosts. Should we open the door…? How haven’t they noticed us yet?” Sam asks, looking to Dean and then creeping closer to the door.

“It feels dark in there. Not… the heavy feeling from before, but something bad. Well, I still have that heavy feeling, but it isn’t coming from in there.”

Dean sighs. “Let’s explore, then. Should I set you down, chicken? I can’t really carry you easily and fight ghosts.”

“If you put me down I will place curses on you,” Castiel hisses. Dean rolls his eyes, pulling out the iron crowbar he had brought with him from wherever he had stashed it before. How would Cas know? He doesn’t pay attention to these things. Sam opens the door slightly, peering in as he does. Dean takes a step back, not bothering to try to get a look in because there’s no hope with Sam being so tall. Castiel just hides in Dean’s jacket, eyes closed, hating the sticky fear sitting heavy in his stomach. His breaths are shallow as Dean and Sam head into the room, stopping just inside.

“How do they not see us?” Sam hisses, and Dean steps to the side. He licks his lips nervously, shuffling his feet as he observes the scene.

“I don’t—fuck, it’s looking right at us!”

A few beats of silence, then, “I don’t think it sees us. It almost looks like it’s looking _through_ us.”

Against his better judgment, Castiel gives in to curiosity and peeks up through the opening to look around. It’s a classroom, filled with ghosts, all of them ignoring him. The room feels like ice, and Castiel is sure his lungs have frozen with a combination of cold and terror. “I’m going to die,” he squawks. The sound echoes in the large room, and Dean hisses at Cas to shut up as Sam falls into a fighting stance, ready to attack anything that comes their way. None of the ghosts even turn to look.

“This looks so old-timey,” Dean mutters, observing the desks and the blackboard.

“There’s even inkwells in the desks,” Sam adds, hesitantly stepping closer. He doesn’t want to draw attention to their party, but it seems like nobody is paying attention to them.

“We’ve kind of seen this before, right? In that mansion with the crazy powerful ghost dude… when Bobby’s ghost was with us?”

“Yeah, I remember that. All those ghosts just standing there… do you think this is a similar situation? Do we have to look out for another powerful energy-sucking ghost?”

“How can you do this?” Castiel wonders quietly. “How can you do this and not be scared?”

They hear the pitter-patter of shoes running through the hallway behind them, and jump, turning to watch the door. It flies open, and a little boy runs into the room, staring wide-eyed at the other ghosts and the teacher nun at the front. He had run right through Sam, completely ignoring the Winchesters and their chicken.

The nun turns to face him, face darkening, twisting to something evil, and Dean holds out his iron crowbar. She doesn’t pay them any attention though.

The ghosts begin to speak, sound echoing through the classroom, bouncing off the stone floor and walls, seeming loud and causing the brothers to jump, startled.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Sister Augustine!” the boy stutters, gripping the straps of his bag tightly. He flickers in and out of view, vanishing into nothing and then stuttering back into existence. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to be late, I got lost, and—” He sounds terrified, voice quieting to a whisper, though it still sounds loud in the otherwise silent room.

The nun, Sister Augustine, steps forward, toward the boy. “You know what happens to boys when they are late,” she says, voice thin but powerful, and it sounds booming. Castiel shakes wildly.

“I can—I can feel their emotions,” he hisses. “They are dead but I can feel that, I can feel that boy’s fear, and the nun… so much darkness, it makes me feel sick, like I can’t breathe!”

Dean unzips the jacket just a little bit, giving the chicken more air and more room to watch.

The nun charges towards the boy, grabbing his arm roughly and yanking him to the front of the room. The boy wails in pain, struggling against her grip, and once they make it to the front of the room the nun twists him to face the class. The skin on the boy’s arm, or the surface of it, anyway, since ghosts don’t have skin, darkens in what are probably bruises. He cradles the arm she had been grabbing, and they can almost see the pearlescent tears forming at the corner of the boy’s eyes.

“Punctuality is important, and little boys who aren’t punctual are punished,” the nun’s voice is wicked, and she turns to face the class. She smiles, though the smile is all sharp teeth, her eyes are black like a demon, and her face is both human and not human, flickering between the two so they can’t get a good read on what either face looks like. “Now, Arthur,” she starts, beckoning forward a mousy looking boy in the middle of the classroom. He slowly makes his way up the aisle to the front, looking back at the classroom with terrified eyes. The class keeps their mouths shut, some looking away or down, others watching wide-eyed.

“Watch!” she barks at the class. Heads snap up and eyes dart forward, the classroom observing the two boys raptly. The nun turns to the boy, Arthur, her face flickering back to the human one and staying that way for the few moments she speaks to him. “Arthur, as a prefect, you get to choose the punishment,” Sister Augustine says sweetly. Back to the demon face. “Shall it be rice or caning?”

Arthur trembles, and Castiel can feel how much the boy does _not_ want to choose, the swirling disgust and regret and terror in the boy’s heart. Arthur looks at the other boy, trying to see if he can discern the preferred punishment in his eyes, but in the end can’t figure it out. “H-how many strikes if I choose caning, Sister?”

“Until I feel he has learned his lesson. So, the cane then?”

“No!” Arthur yelps. “I mean, I don’t know yet. How many minutes for the rice?” his voice is quieter now, and he can see the malice in Sister Augustine’s face, and Arthur _knows_ he will be punished next for yelling.

“Since you asked so sweetly, Arthur, I’ll let _you_ kneel on the rice for the duration of the class, and give you the task of caning Timothy until I feel he has felt enough pain.”

“Please, Sister.” Sam, Dean, and Castiel struggle to hear, as Arthur’s voice turns so quiet. “Please don’t make me…”

“An extra 3 strikes for each ‘please’. So, that makes it… who can tell me?” she turns to the classroom. “In addition to the original punishment, how many strikes has Arthur earned for Timothy?” she looks to the class for answers. No hands go up, and even Sam and Dean are feeling choked by the fear swirling in the room. “One strike for every classmate whose hand was not raised as well. Fifteen students, so, how many strikes has Timothy earned _now_ , class?”

Nearly every hand in the class shoots up, and Sister Augustine looks pleased. “Herbert,” she calls, nodding to a boy with thick glasses.

“T-twenty-one, Sister,” he stutters, licking his lips nervously.

“Very good, Herbert. Twenty-one strikes plus the standard punishment.” Sister Augustine’s voice is sickly sweet, and she turns to Timothy who is positively shaking.

“This is fucked up,” Dean says, shaking his head. “It’s good this place was shut down.”

“I really don’t want to watch this,” Sam runs a hand over his face, feeling queasy. “But I can’t look away. Like some messed up horror movie.”

Sister Augustine’s voice rings out in the classroom, ordering Timothy to bend over the whipping bench. The boy shudders, bending over it, pressing fists to his eyes to hide his tears. Arthur makes quick work of strapping Timothy’s wrists to it, and his legs, whispering a quiet “I’m so sorry,” to Timothy as he does so. Not that Castiel or Sam or Dean can hear it, physically, but they just know that is what Arthur had said. Sister Augustine steps forward and hands a rattan cane, thick at the base and tapering to a sharp point, to Arthur. The despair Castiel can feel running through poor Arthur’s icy veins is palpable, and he aches for the boy. Sam is right, it is absolutely _wrong_ that this is happening, that it _had_ happened, if this ghost-movie is to be believed, but they can’t look away, enraptured by the events.

Arthur steps into position, looking over his shoulder at Sister Augustine, and then to his classmates. He closes his eyes for a moment, steeling himself. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it_ and Castiel is shocked, flapping his wings. “I can hear his thoughts,” Castiel hisses. “How can I hear his thoughts, he’s dead!” Sam and Dean look at Castiel worriedly, and Castiel is hit with the image of a home, of Arthur and his younger brother, playing in the living room. Then another, a group of boys at the beach, climbing on rocks and splashing in the water. How is it possible for Castiel to hear the ghosts’ thoughts and to see what they were thinking one hundred years ago? The images in Castiel’s brain fizzle out, and then although he can’t hear any concrete thoughts, Castiel knows that the spark of dread arching through the room and through his veins is coming from Timothy.

Arthur steps back with the cane, exhaling sharply, arm drawing back, and the loud _snap_ of the cane landing on the fleshy part of Timothy’s upper thighs is like thunder. Dean jumps, Castiel squawks, and Sam looks back at them, exasperated. He looks forward and he can see Sister Augustine, and she is no longer watching Arthur and Timothy. She steps, thump, thump, thump, toward the trio, demon-face snapping into place.

“ _What are you doing here?”_ she hisses, flying forward, towards them, the scene of the classroom flickering out of existence, a scene of desks tipped over and blood on the floor coming into view instead. “ _Leave, now!”_ The nun growls, an inhuman sound, grating and crunching and Sam swings his crowbar through the apparition, and she disappears. They flee from the room and the door slams closed behind them, some otherworldly force having shut it and locked it and they hear a crash from inside the room, and then all goes silent.

“Holy shit,” Dean gasps. Sam leans against the wall opposite the door, trying to catch his breath, heart thumping so hard it feels like it will rip out of his chest. Castiel is silent, still inside Dean’s jacket, and Dean panics, unzipping it and grabbing Castiel. He holds the chicken out, and though Castiel’s eyes are open he is unseeing. The color drains from the Winchesters’ faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! Sorry it took so long to post this chapter. School started and every professor is like HAHA YOU'RE IN YOUR LAST SEMESTER SO YOU HAVE TO DO FIVE HUNDRED MILLION ESSAYS READ THIS BORING 300 PAGE BOOK IN A WEEK AND WRITE A LIT REVIEW ON IT
> 
> no
> 
> no i don't want to
> 
> anyway, hope you liked it~ lemme know if it's even scary? It freaked me out writing it, haha.
> 
> sorrynotsorry for the cliffhanger ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The darkness" mentioned in this fic is completely unrelated to any canonical darkness in the show.

Sam quietly speaks up. “Is he… did he die?”

Dean shakes his head, biting his lip. “I can feel his heart beat.”

“Maybe he passed out?” Sam offers, glancing worriedly at the door they had come out of, and up and down the hallway. He holds his hand out, snapping his fingers in front of Castiel’s face, and the chicken jerks, blinking and looking at Sam dazedly, then up at Dean.

“I… I don’t know what happened,” Castiel murmurs, sounding a bit drunk.

“Oh thank god,” Dean gasps in relief, hugging the chicken to his chest. Castiel squirms, pecking at his arm.

“You’re crushing me,” he rumbles, attempting to flap his wings, but it doesn’t work.

Sam ran a hand through his face, grimacing. “What the hell happened, Cas? And we need to get going, or something, before that ghost comes back.”

“She came toward us and spoke and then the world turned black and then white and I couldn’t see anything or hear anything and all I felt was that…” if Castiel were a human, he is sure that a tear or two would have escaped him at this point. “That dark, heavy feeling, only it crushed me and I felt like I couldn’t breathe,” he finishes, struggling to get closer to Dean’s body, missing the safety of the jacket and the warmth of the man’s chest. Castiel feels so _cold_ , worse than before, and it doesn’t feel like a natural cold. It feels like the supernatural chill is freezing the blood in his veins and the darkness is crushing all of the air out of his lungs. Dean gets the hint and zips his jacket back up around Castiel, sighing.

“Was it from the nun?”

“No. The nun—she wasn’t the nun when she saw us. It… she was something else, the thing we’re looking for, and then the nun disappeared and that thing came into me and then went away, and now I hear buzzing and I don’t know why and it’s scaring me,” Castiel whimpers.

“Tinnitus. Probably from your heart freaking out and the increased blood pressure.”

“All right, Dr. Samsquatch,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

Sam elects to ignore his brother, tapping the crowbar against his thigh. “Do we keep going?”

“Yeah, let’s keep looking for stairs, and ignore any creepy under-the-door lightshows,” Dean decides, taking the front and leading them down the hall. They pass a few doors, most of the rooms dark inside, one or two with the ‘creepy under-the-door lightshows’, and they reach another fork in the road. “Turn right or continue forward?” the hallway they had been going down is lit by the sliver of moon left, but the hallway leading deeper into the building is pitch black. Castiel does not want to go that way.

“Turn right,” he says resignedly.

“You really wanna go down that hallway, Cas?”

“The heavy feeling is pulling me that direction,” he answers, voice quiet.

“All right,” Sam says with a shrug, and they flick on their flashlights as they head down the hallway. They take a few steps forward and the emergency lights in the hallway switch on, and Sam and Dean press against the wall, looking up at the lights then down the hallway. “That’s not possible,” Sam whispers. “There’s no power.”

Castiel hides in the jacket. “We’re all going to die.”

There’s a rustling noise then disembodied laughter coming from further down the hallway, and inside one of the rooms, and the door closest to them flies open, a group of schoolboys spilling out of it, some turning left toward Sam and Dean and some turning right, and the trio hold their breaths as the schoolboys pass right through them and another nun enters the hallway. This one, while still projecting a malicious air, does not have the demon-face thing going on. She walks toward them and Sam is ready to strike with his crowbar, when she walks by without glancing at them once.

“Another ghost movie?” he wonders.

“Why are the fucking lights on?” Dean’s voice is strained, just above a harsh whisper.

A little boy appears in front of the trio, looking right at them, tilting his head back to look up at Sam, then at Dean, then at the lump in Dean’s jacket.

“Why are you here?” the boy asks. The apparition looks almost corporeal, and Sam and Dean are silent for a moment, looking around them for another ghost that the boy might be speaking to. The ghost rolls his eyes. “I’m talking to you two, and the chicken,” he says, a New England lilt to his voice. “What are you doing here?”

Sam brandishes his iron crowbar and the ghost takes a step back. “I’m not going to hurt you,” the boy says. “The others can’t see you,” he adds sadly. “They can’t see me either.”

“One of them came rushing at us,” Dean says shakily. “ _She_ saw us.”

“Oh,” the boy says, tilting his head, tapping his finger against his lips as he thinks. “It must be the darkness,” he says, pointing to the ceiling. “He knows you’re here. You were taking too long in the classroom, I think, and he wants to see you soon. So he made Sister Augustine see you.”

“How the hell do you know that? You weren’t even there!” Sam responds. The boy gives them a sad smile.

“I can feel it,” he says, tapping his own head. “Your thoughts are very loud, that’s how the darkness found you. And the chicken,” the boy gestures toward Dean’s chest. “It knows the chicken. Though…” the boy frowns, taking a step forward, and Sam holds up the crowbar again. The boy looks at it with distaste. “If I wanted to hurt you I would have by now, please put that away,” he grumbles. Sam lowers his arm a bit, unsure of what to do. Dean gives him a panicked look. Castiel pops his head up through the opening, giving the boy a wide-eyed stare.

“Oh!” the boy grins. “The darkness felt you,” he said. “When the nun came at you, he knows you, so he touched you.”

“Is that why I passed out?” Castiel asks, voice low. The boy nods his head. “It’s okay, he doesn’t want to hurt you. Though, the humans… he doesn’t like them very much.” He frowns. “My name is Ashley.”

Dean snorts. “That’s a girl’s name!”

Ashley gives Dean a scandalized look. “It may be a girl’s name _now_ , but it wasn’t when I was alive. And anyway, it’s better than _your_ name.”

“How do you know my name?” Dean demands. Ashley rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.

“ _Hel-lo_ , I’m a psychic ghost,” he waves his hand in the air. “Anyway!” he smiles genuinely, pointing to Castiel again. “Why has that witch chosen to become a chicken?” he questions. Castiel pops his head out again, ready to correct the boy caustically and also complain, but Ashley beats him to it. “Oh! A curse.” He pauses, eyebrows furrowing, looking at Castiel curiously. “I know that magic,” he murmurs. “The witch that was here earlier, did she do that to you?”

“So you saw the witch?” Dean is excited now, forgetting his fear. The boy nods.

“Yes, she came to see the darkness, but he made her go away. He didn’t like her very much. He sent me away but I still listened in the hallway, she said something about needing his energy for something. But he didn’t give it to her, and he sent her out, and then she left.”

“How long ago?” Sam asks, happy to ignore the fact that he’s having an amiable conversation with a ghost boy.

“Maybe… a few hours ago?” the boy shrugs. “I’m not sure, time doesn’t feel the same for me. It was light out, though, but just barely. I’m sure it wasn’t more than a day ago, though.”

“So early evening,” Sam responds, sighing. “We missed her by like 8 hours,” he mumbles, pulling his phone out to check the time. He frowns. 4:03. The same time they had arrived. Dean notices Sam’s troubled look and raises an eyebrow in question, so Sam tilts his phone so Dean can see.

“How the hell is it still 4am?”

The ghost boy is looking up at the phone curiously.

“Oh, I think time stopped,” he answers, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the Winchesters’ incredulous stares. “It does that sometimes, with the darkness here. He’s heavy, you know? Makes things weird. Things move around sometimes, too. Last night one of the rooms grew.”

“That’s… terrifying,” Dean says. Castiel has remained quiet, head poking out to watch the boy. Ashley stands on his tiptoes, trying to look at the phone.

“What is that machine?” he questions. “The other witch had one too, but I didn’t talk to her.”

“It’s a phone,” Sam says distractedly, moving through the settings trying to figure out what happened. He has full bars and a nearly-full battery, how could time actually _stop_?

Ashley gives Sam a disbelieving look. “That’s not a phone. I’m not stupid. It’s something else.”

“It’s a cellphone, doesn’t need wires or whatever, sends signal through the air,” Sam tries to explain. “It’s also like a computer? There are apps, you can do a lot of things, play games, get directions or whatever.”

Ashley stares at him blankly. “A… computer?” the word sounds foreign when the boy says it. Sam and Dean look at each other before looking at Ashley.

“What year are you from?” Castiel asks, curious.

“1903,” he answers. “I was born in 1889. I’m fourteen.”

Castiel clucks once in response, pausing before he asks the next question. “When did you die? _How_ did you die?”

Ashley is silent for a moment. “I died in 1903,” he says slowly. “The um… Sister Augustine drowned me,” his voice is quiet. “After she beat me, because she saw me kissing a boy, and she beat him too, and she drowned him as well. Are you going to hit me with the crowbar because I kissed a boy?” he asks of Sam.

They’re horrified. “Of course not!” Sam yelps, as Dean responds with “It’s 2015, man, gay marriage is legal.”

Ashley frowns. “Gay marriage?”

“Yeah, you know, two dudes or two chicks, they can get married. It’s not a big deal,” Dean says with a shrug. Ashley’s eyes widen for a moment, and then he looks down at his shoes.

“Then I wish I had been born much later than 1889,” he responds quietly. They’re all silent for a moment, before Ashley looks back up at the men. “But, I’m dead, so it doesn’t really matter anymore.” His smile is wistful, and he looks up and down the hallway.

A sudden blast of energy and sound, like roaring, throw Sam and Dean against the wall, and Ashley stumbles. “We have to get going,” he urges. “We need to see the darkness, he wants to talk to Castiel.”

“How do you know my name?!”

Ashley gives Castiel an unimpressed look, shaking his head and starting down the hallway.

“How do we know you’re not going to lead us to our death or something?” Sam asks, holding up the crowbar again.

Castiel looks at Ashley, and Ashley looks at him, and they have some sort of silent conversation. Castiel blinks once, twice, clucks, and looks up at Dean. “His energy is not malicious. I think he just wants to help.”

Dean frowns. “ _Why_ do you want to help?”

The boy hesitates, chewing his lip, looking up at the ceiling as if gathering his thoughts. “I was hoping… maybe you could help me, after I help you.”

“Help you with what?” Sam asks.

“If I tell you where my body is buried, can you burn my bones? I’ve spent so long in this building,” Ashley rubs his eyes with his hands, needing a moment to collect himself before continuing. “And you’re the first ones to talk to me besides the darkness since I have died. I’m lonely, and tired, and I just want to be done.”

Sam and Dean share another psychic brother look, and Castiel has become good at shutting out their thoughts, but he can feel the question of _should we trust him?_ bounce back and forth between them.

“Will we be hurt by… the darkness?” Sam inquires. Ashley frowns, looking at Castiel, then Dean, then Sam.

“I don’t think so. But I’m not the darkness. He likes Castiel, and Castiel likes you two, so I think he wouldn’t harm you.”

Dean smirks, looking down at Castiel. “You _like_ us, huh?”

Castiel ruffles his feathers, grumbling, swearing at the brothers half-heartedly. “Fuck you. I hate you.”

Sam rolls his eyes, stepping forward to follow the boy. Dean feels a psychic, physical _push_ toward Ashley and Sam, and he stumbles. Ashley sighs and looks at the ceiling. “They’re coming, okay? There’s no need to rush us,” the boy says resignedly.

“Are you talking to the darkness?” Dean’s questions gruffly.

“Obviously,” Ashley responds, rolling his eyes again.

“Clearly fourteen year olds have not changed from 1903 to now,” Sam says quietly, and Ashley turns to grin, walking backwards.

“My body is in Saint Gregory Cemetery,” he offers, turning back around and skipping, turning a corner. The Winchesters follow, of course. “My name is Ashley von Essen,” he says proudly. “My family has a mausoleum, so my body should be easy to find.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Damn. Rich little fucker aren’t you?”

The boy shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter, the family line died out with me. The money was lost, or something, I’m not quite sure what happened to it. I can’t actually leave the building, so I am just assuming it went to the community.”

Ashley leads them through another turn, then another, and then a set of stairs appears and he starts climbing them, looking back at the party following him. “He won’t be able to speak to you two,” Ashley says, pointing to the brothers. “Only Castiel,” and then he turns forward again. Castiel feels a thick dread, nearly choking him. He wonders if _that’s_ the darkness. As they move closer to the pit of it, and the air grows thicker and charged with energy, the buzzing in Castiel’s ears intensifies to the point it hurts, becoming a high-pitched, ringing whine. He winces, and Ashley looks at him with a worried frown.

“You’re hurting him,” the ghost boy whispers harshly. The buzzing slides back into a dull hum, and Castiel exhales shakily. Dean holds the chicken closer to his chest, frowning. The hallway is darker, a preternatural black mist surrounds them. It’s warm and the air turns muggy, and something smells _rotten_ and like burned flesh, and Sam coughs and Dean gags. They pause, Dean breathing harshly. Ashley hesitates in front of them, looking around frantically. Castiel feels choked, but not by the smell and the hot, humid air.

“You need to put him down,” the ghost boy says to Dean.

“Fuck no!” he responds, glaring, and then coughs, covering up his nose as he takes shallow breaths through his mouth

“He won’t let you two go any further. He won’t hurt Castiel, and I’ll be with him.”

Castiel struggles in Dean’s grip. “Let me,” he squawks, and then jumps from the man’s jacket, landing on the floor with an inelegant plunk. He stands, ruffling his feathers, and waddling forward. Castiel pauses before looking back at the brothers. “If you need to run, don’t worry about leaving me behind.” He tilts his head, scratching absently at the floor with his feet. A gust of putrid air pushes past Ashley and Castiel, knocking the two brothers back a few steps, and the buzz and pull Castiel feels becomes overwhelming.

“Fucking chicken,” Dean gripes, taking a few more steps backwards until the smell and heat become bearable. They both sit down against the wall, and Sam and Dean hear their phones pinging notifications. Sam lifts his out of his pocket, blinking at it. 6:34. He can see faint light from a window at the end of the hallway.

“Weird,” he mumbles, giving his phone a suspicious look. Dean’s brows are furrowed as he looks at his own phone in confusion. Text messages from nobody, which shouldn’t be possible, with no timestamp.

B̵̷͓͎̱͚̺͎̞̳̈͆ͤ̂̓̎̔Ŗ̹͍̤͚͖̰̻̿̓̅͑̏͢Ì̴ͫͣ͌̂̑̏̒͏̪̘͠Ñ̯̳̘͑̿ͫ́͂̒̎͐͡G̵̨͕̝̻ͪͮ̽͆ͤ̉ ̱̖̬̟̓̀̔H̢̰̯̎̓̈́̑ͨ̌̈́͜͡I̳̻̜̞͍̫͚̱̝͑ͧ͛̿̽̌̊͆͜͟͝M̵̨̠̲͎̀̅́̆̏ͥ

̶̨͖̼̫̭̗̎̐̏ͪ̒́͗̽͜B̧̺̟͚͍ͧͮ̽R̹̟̒̌̒̽ͪͪI̴̤̯̝̟̺͚̖ͨ̒ͫͫ̋̽͑N̪̹ͥ͐͌͊͗ͩͭ̿̀G͉͎̝̹̥̙̝̼̝͆̔͘ ̸̶̪̻̮͕̘ͣ̐̎̊̑̓ͅM̵̟͕͈͉̎͘E̶̦͕̒͗͋ͪͫ͋̚͡ ̝̯̹̩̓͑C͛̓͗̊ͤ̄͏̵̷̜͚Aͫ̈́͂ͫ̎̒ͭ҉̶̙͜S̶̡̮͉̹̞͕̅̑̓ͧ̀ͩ̂̄ͤ͞Ţ̭̲ͥͧͭ̋͜ͅI̧ͬ̕͏̰̘͓͍̬͓̖È̥̲̼͚̺̠̹͔ͯ̃̆̄͒̏̎̄͡L̹͉̟͙̮̙̋̽ͮͨ

̶̴̲̬̼̌̅̽̆ͅB̷̖͈̝̻̘̔́͆̔R̼̞̙͌̓̓͋ͧ̋̈́̌I͂̏ͫ̏ͥ̅͏̙̲̰̥̩̯Ṇ̢̪̞̳̠̩̈͟G̗̣̝͎̜̀ͧ̅͋ͪ͆̑͞ ̨̌͋ͬͮ҉̟̹͕͖̞̣͎́ͅͅH̢̟̼͇̥̖̜ͪ͂̑̾ͪ̂I̪̞̞̲̤̣͔̯ͦ̅ͩ͋M̢͕͔̙̥̞ͩ̐ ͚̙͓̳͉̹̖͇̃͐̀̈ͨ͢T̨̺̫̯̥̓̆ͥ͂ͧ̒͢O̢̙̯͌̐̿̇̅ͤ̐ ̷̖̬̘͌͗ͭM͈̤̫̎͋̃ͣ̈ͫ͜E̱̘̠̦̜͓̤̯̫ͯͤ̔̒̎̓̿̋̓͘̕

̺̗̅͛͡B̡̹̬͖̤̭͑̋ͨ̒̓̒́R̭̳̫ͯ͛I̷ͪ̋͒̑̎ͥ҉̱̬̙͓̤̠N̵̲̘ͥ̎̄ͩ̑ͬ̈͑G̨̥̦͍͚͈̻̝̘ͬͮͮ̉̅ͫ̀ͫ͐ ̴̣̺͙̘ͯ̈́̓ͥ́̅͗ͅḦ̗̹̞̫͙̖̮̟́̎̒Iͪ̽ͭ̍̾̐̐͏̧͉̦̯M̲̣̭̞̺̲̭̉ͧͥͥ̌̓̕

̔̇͏̭B̬ͤ̌ͨ̈̇ͤ͢͞R̲̭ͯͦ̓̿̓ͬĬ̠̼̊͒ͣͫ̉̄͂̀N̘͙̜̤ͪ̚͟͞G̶̺͇͆͋͐̀ ̱̖͇̎͐͌̉̒̾̀Ḩ̴̶͍͍̳̌̇̀̒͂ͧI̡̼̮̮͚̹ͨ̒̉͛̔͂̀M̗̹̼͕͔̜̹̈́̎́̇ͫͪ̀

̨̫̳̻̥̙͙̙̺̻́̽̓̊̚͡B̨̨̞͖͈̺̤͖̤̰͖ͣ̉ͬ͆̋͛́ ͔̝̭̮͎̅̊ ̖ͥ̉̔ͯ̎͑̽̉͟͞N̵̸̵̹̺͉̺̙̭ͫͭ̋͂͒ ̡̭̮̺̗ͣͥ ̵̥͕ͦ̿̀I̧̝̩͇̝͎̫̟͚͖̐̀͝M̡͔̥͔̳̃̈ͥ̅́͢

̹̀͌͊̽̓ͨ̅͋̓̀N͙̥̣̦̞̦̠̘͗̒O̶̙̝̼̬̾ͣ̀Ẅ̺͎̣̺̦́ͣ̊ͯ̊͑̍͊̿͟ͅ

B͝͠R̵I̡N̸̡G̷ ̧͡H͠I͡M͜͟͢

B̢R͏ING̶ HI̧M

 

“Holy fuck,” Dean breathes, showing Sam his phone. Sam gives Dean a grim look.

“Put that away, it’s freaking me out,” Sam groans.

“So you didn’t get any?”

Sam checks, going through his messages, and shakes his head. “No, nothing.”

Dean’s phone pings again, and he looks down, and he’s received an image. He clicks on it. Nothing. Just black. “What?” he mumbles, squinting at it. Sam scoots over, leaning to look at the screen. Dean receives another image, just black, but with an… object? Person? Whatever it is, it’s a dark, dark grey, almost indiscernible, blending in with the black. Another image comes through, and whatever is in it is definitely not an object. A person, or creature? Another image, and Dean’s blood feels chilled, muscles tense with dread. The image is black again, and flashes white and red and black and white and there’s _someone and they blink_ and Dean yelps, throwing the phone.

Sam’s eyes are wide and he is squeezing his hands into fists. “What the fuck,” he breathes. The phone rattles, slowly sliding back to them, and from the phone’s tinny speakers he hears it ringing, once, twice, thrice, four times, five times, then click. The phone has been answered, and the call is active, and Dean reaches forward to hang up but the phone skitters back, away from his touch.

The voice coming through, on speaker phone (what a smart little monster) is like white noise, and a scratchy, rattling breath.

“Why is this happening to us?” Dean hisses.

Sam clenches his jaw, staring at the phone, unblinking. Dean glances to him, and Sam glances back, and they both turn their gaze back to the phone.

Another rattling breath, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Then a growl, just Castiel’s name, turning into a low murmur of _castiel castiel castiel castiel castiel castiel castiel_ with volume getting louder and louder until with a squeal the phone dies, flying back toward Dean and slamming into the wall, screen cracked. Dean throws it down the hall, not wanting to own a goddamn _demon phone_.

“Please come back, Cas,” Dean whines, covering his eyes with his hands. It feels like hours that Sam and Dean sit in the hallway, terrified, adrenaline pumping, until the darkness recedes down the hallway, a buzz they didn’t realize was there fades out, and the brothers feel a bit unhinged and dizzy. Finally, they hear the light pitter-patter scritch-scratch of Castiel’s claws on the stone floor, and the unearthly footsteps of Ashley, and they come back into view.

Ashley frowns at them. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, and then smirks. Castiel waddles his way to Dean, flapping his wings as he jumps into the man’s lap.

“Can we leave?” Sam asks hurriedly. “Please say we can leave. Do we need anything else here?”

As Dean transfers the chicken back into his jacket, Castiel manages to get out a shaky, “Yes we can leave and let’s leave now I hate this place.”

Ashley is pensive as he leads them back down the twisting corridors until they stop in the foyer, by the doors they came in. It must be nearing 7am, with where the sun is in the sky. The boy gives the brothers a worried look. “You’ll take care of my body, right?”

Sam looks at him, then the sky outside through the windows. “We might need to wait until the night again,” he responds.

The ghost boy lets out a put-upon sigh, which shouldn’t be possible because ghosts don’t breathe, but whatever.

“Let’s go now,” Castiel squawks. “It’s not too late, and I can tell you about what happened on our way over.”

Ashley’s disposition looks brighter, and he smiles up at the men. “Thank you so much,” he sounds so relieved that there is no way Sam and Dean can’t go take care of the boy’s body now.

“Remember, Saint Gregory Cemetery. Ashley von Essen. I have a family mausoleum. You can probably get the bones and take care of them right inside, even.”

The brothers nod, and then wave. “Thanks for the help, Ashley.”

The boy looks so serene as he nods. “Yes, of course. Please, Castiel, be safe. Winchesters as well. Good bye!” he calls, and they escape back out into the outside, hurrying from the grounds and to the road.

They are too full of nerves to talk, and so they continue in silence to the car, then the graveyard, and take care of the bones. They drive back to the motel and after one fast food run on the way there they make it to the room, spilling inside of it. Dean sets Castiel down on the bed, and Sam, having grabbed some salt from the trunk, makes quick work of sealing off the windows and doors and making it ghost-proof. They collapse onto their respective beds, Dean narrowly missing falling on top of Castiel, who flaps his wings and pecks Dean’s side in protest.

“I’m never going to be able to sleep again,” Sam groans, and Dean follows up with an “I’m never getting a fucking cell phone again.”

They eat, Dean hand-feeding Castiel, and then it’s time to talk about what happened.

“Spill,” Dean orders, stroking Castiel like a cat. Castiel cuddles close to Dean, fluffing up his feathers and twisting to groom the wings. Sam gathers that it’s an action born out of anxiety, and so he stills Dean with a hand when his brother looks like he’s about to scold the poor chicken for it.

“Well, first off, I almost died from fear alone.”

He hears the brothers grumble under their breath about cell phones and ghosts and decides he doesn’t really want to know.

“Why did he want to talk to _you_?” Dean asks, leaning against the headboard of his bed.

“Because I’m special,” Castiel clucks, sounding about as deadpan as is possible for a chicken. “But, ah… more seriously, he wanted to talk to me because I’m a witch. He needs… needs some things to do a ritual. I don’t know how I feel about it, I don’t know if I’m going to do it, but…” Castiel trails off, his cute little clucks becoming softer as he fluffs up his feathers and pulls his head in close to his body. He closes his cute little chicken eyes for a moment, re-opening them to look at Dean first, Sam second, then back to staring at nothing as he thinks. “The problem with having conversations with otherworldly, incorporeal beings is that you can’t do anything to them and they have all the power. If I don't, he said there will be 'consequences'...”

The brothers share a worried look. “What kind of consequences?” Dean asked.

“That’s the thing… he refused to say. I don’t know if I’ve been cursed, or if the darkness can even extend itself further than the school, or what. Or maybe it’s a bluff. But he told me he wanted me to do blood magic.”

“So?”

Castiel gives Dean an approximation of an incredulous stare, but he does not succeed in conveying how baffled he is by the hunter’s horrifying ignorance. “I’m talking about blood magic and you give me a ‘ _so_ ’?!”

“We do that all the time… you know, summoning stuff, a little blood as an ingredient.”

“You fatuous _twit_ ,” Castiel starts, offended by the absolute stupidity of the hunters. “That’s not blood magic, that’s just regular, _mundane_ magic. Not even passé! Ranked below even that! That’s like a _child’s_ magic,” he rolls his eyes before continuing. “Blood magic is a type of black magic. It’s top level stuff. Extreme, difficult, and deadly. It’s not just spilling a few drops of blood in a puddle, it’s infusing _all_ of your blood with dark magic, binding you to whatever you’re performing blood magic on. So because of your fucking _idiocy_ , I’m now forced to perform blood magic for a goddamn disembodied, omnipotent _whatever he is_. I’m not even sure I _can_ …”

Dean and Sam look nervous. “Does this involve us?”

Castiel groans, which comes out more like a garbled raptor noise than anything else. “Of course, you nitwit. How have you survived this long? I can’t believe how horrifyingly _daft_ you are.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, Dean furrows his. “Man, you’ve gotta talk more like a person, don’t use some fancy ancient witch language.”

“Unsophisticated ass,” Castiel hisses.

Sam sighs. “He’s just calling us variations of stupid, Dean.”

Castiel continues, having adequately insulted the brothers. “Of _course_ it involves you. Blood magic needs more power than what I have, what any witch has, so the witch needs… batteries. You’re the batteries. I don’t know how it affects humans but I know you’re not bound and enslaved to the magic, at least.”

“Batteries,” Dean is deadpan.

“Familiars are better, but I’ve not got one.”

“Probably because you’re so fucking cranky,” Dean mutters under his breath. Castiel still hears him, and gives him a venomous look.

“So,” Sam starts. “The darkness, or whatever that thing is, wants to do blood magic for who knows what, and spoke to you, and now you have to do some dangerous, probably deadly stuff. For some… _thing_.”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms.

“And what did you learn about the other witch?”

“She came and demanded answers about some talisman? Some… gregory? Gri… grigarry? Something like that?”

“A gregory?” Dean snorts.

“Gris-gris, Dean.”

“Yes! That’s what he said.”

“A gris-gris is an item used in Hoodoo,” Sam explains. “In some places it’s used for good, but in the United States, especially Louisiana, it’s used for… bad things, I guess? Curses?”

“How do you know this?” Dean mutters.

Sam rolls his eyes. “I actually study and pay attention, Dean. Haven’t you been reading the books in the bunker?”

Castiel cocks his head. “Bunker?”

“Yeah, the old Men of Letters bunker.”

Castiel stares at Sam, mystified. “You’re… you have access to the _Men of Letters_ bunker? And the research? And the _items_?” the chicken squawks excitedly. Sam narrows his eyes, suspicious.

“You’re not going to see it. We’re not taking you there. You’re going to stay _away_ ,” Sam orders.

Castiel frowns. “Once I transform back I can just follow you…”

“Yes,” Sam sighs. “And we know how to kill witches, and won’t hesitate.”

“C’mon man, he’s my chicken!” Dean interjects. _It’d be cool to have a harmless witch in the bunker, maybe he can magically clean everything? Organize our stuff?_ he wonders.

Castiel grits his teeth. Or he would if he had any. So he just ends up squeezing his beak together, which hurts, which makes him squawk again. “I will _not_ be your maid!”

“Quit with that,” Dean groans.

“If I could I _would_ ,” the chicken growls. “I loathe you so much that I feel like I’m choking on it. Choking on the hatred that is running in my veins and swirling in my stomach.”

“Whatever, birdie. You can be as cranky as you want but you can’t really do anything,” Dean gives him a smirk. Castiel wonders if he actually _can_. If he is psychic, maybe he still retains some magical powers? When he was young he displayed a proficiency in telekinesis. He resolves to practice later, perhaps while the moose and his ridiculous brother sleep.

“Alright,” Sam begins, trying to get them back on track. “The darkness wants Cas to do some blood magic later, after he’s been turned back into a human, and Cas may or may not be cursed to do it, and you and me,” he nods at Dean. “We’re some… _batteries_ for this magic. What if we don’t come with?”

“You have to,” Castiel answers tiredly. “You’re part of it, or at least that’s what he said, and I guess it’s your choice whether or not you want to risk being murdered by some devil-ghost thing, but I’d recommend being my batteries.”

Dean makes a face, leaning his head back on the headboard.

“Right. So… we have to become batteries. Then… the gris-gris thing, and this witch we’re chasing. Does she have the gris-gris?”

“Apparently she had come to ask him where she could find some _specific_ gris-gris, and he told her to fuck off or whatever. I don’t know _which_ gris-gris, or how we can possibly find it without more information.”

“So we’re chasing a witch and she’s chasing a gris-gris,” Dean repeats.

“And so we’re chasing the witch _and_ the gris-gris now.”

“And she’s going to…”

“Whitewater. Also known as the ‘Second Salem’, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

Sam nods, pulling out his phone to check how long the drive from St. Nazianz is to Whitewater.

“There are a lot of things in Whitewater,” Castiel continues. “A lot of the surrounding towns have hauntings, and there is a large state park with Native American burial mounds that is also said to be haunted.”

“So we’ve got to look… in a bunch of cities?” Dean looks annoyed.

Castiel pauses. “The darkness told me a few places that she might have gone, but—”

“Two hours from here to Whitewater,” Sam says, talking over Castiel and Dean. “So we should leave now, we can get there in the morning, do some recon, and figure out what to do next.”

“We haven’t even _slept_ ,” Castiel moans. He wants to practice his telekinesis, damnit!

“You’ll can sleep when you’re dead, Cas. Enjoy living and being awake!” Dean pats Castiel on the head. The chicken shuffles.

“I’m _tired_ , I’m _hungry_ , and I _hate you_ ,” he sighs.

“Then I’ll feed you and put you in your little basket so you can sleep.”

Castiel is gravely offended, but he doesn’t have the power to take action, because he is a _fucking_ chicken.  Regardless, they are then on their way toward Whitewater, Wisconsin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter may take a while, or be really short, because I don't have much written of it yet. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL SORRY I AM HORRIBLE this is a small chapter, it's all i have written right now and i figured a small update and letting you all know i'm alive is better than nothing?

They pull into Whitewater somewhere between 9 and 10 in the morning, all three of them exhausted as the events of last night/early morning catch up to them. Dean pulls into the parking lot of their night’s accommodation, having been chosen because it is an “establishment with a history of being haunted, and look, Dean, there’s rumors there are tunnels underneath that were used for the _Underground Railroad, isn’t that awesome_?!” Or that’s how Sam had pitched it to Dean, and Dean, irritable (and slightly delirious) with lack of sleep, had agreed. So. That’s where they are now.

“Did you check to see if they allow pets?” Dean asks, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Sam’s delayed response is all that Dean needs to know that Sam did _not_ check to see if they allow pets. And just their luck, pets aren’t allowed.

Castiel grumbles that he’s not a pet, but Sam and Dean elect to ignore him. “We can just smuggle him in or something.”

“Yeah, but how? It’s not like I’ve got a purse or something to shove him into,” Dean responds, rolling his eyes and looking out the window.

“We can put him in one of the duffle bags,” is Sam’s solution to their problem.

“I will _not_ be transported around in a _bag_ , which has housed who _knows_ what! Dirty underwear, probably! Disgusting! I’ve avoided STDs my whole life, I don’t want to catch some from your disgusting bag!”

Sam gives Castiel an irritated look. “Okay, 1) you can’t catch STDs that way, and 2) you either get in the bag or you get to sleep in the car.”

“Can witches even _get_ STDs?” Dean questions, interested in the conversation again.

“Of course witches can get STDs, Dean, we _are_ human.” Castiel gives Dean a look before tacking on, “Superior humans. But humans nonetheless.”

“So you’ve spent all these centuries avoiding STDs? Is that why you never go outside? Or are you just _really super careful_ when you got lady witches over at your house.”

“I’m gay, Dean.”

“ _Dude_ witches, then.”

Castiel turns his break up at Dean’s line of questioning. “I’ll have you know I’ve never engaged in sexual relations before, and that is why I could never have gotten an STD.”

Sam groans, opening the door. “I’m checking us in, you guys have your sex conversation without me, thanks,” he announces before slamming the door closed as he heads inside. Dean is smirking down at the chicken.

“Never engaged in ‘ _sexual relations_ ’, huh? So you’ve lived a few centuries already and you’ve _never_ had sex?”

Castiel now understands his mistake in having offered up that bit of information.

“I… I just haven’t had the occasion,” Castiel says stiffly. “I could, if I wanted to. I’ve just been… ah… busy. Yes. I’ve been too busy.”

“Too busy growing plants and saving kittens.”

“Yes, exactly,” Castiel inches away from Dean, wishing for a way to escape this conversation. He should have asked to go with Sam! Except they don’t allow pets, so he wouldn’t have been allowed anyway…

“So you’re a big gay witchy virgin, who spends all his time avoiding people and playing with plants instead… are you _afraid_ of sex, Cas? Man, I need to get you laid when we transform you back. Take you to a strip club and have someone give you _extra service_ if you know what I mean. Or I could take you to a chicken farm so you don’t have to wait,” he says with a wink.

Castiel ruffles his wings, turning his back on Dean and desperately not wanting to have this conversation. “I have been to houses of ill repute before, Dean, and I would quite like to never step foot in one again!” He jumps when he hears a knock on the glass behind him, falling off the seat and sending Dean into a fit of laughter as the man rolls down his window.

“Yeah, Sam?”

“We’re all checked in,” he dangled the keys to the room from his fingers. “Should we set up and then head back out?”

Castiel squawks in outrage, flapping his wings. “Absolutely not! I am tired and require sleep. You two… _buffoons_ can do whatever you want, but I will not be dragged into this insomniac insanity!”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Need your beauty sleep?”

Sam sighs, opens the duffel bag they decided the chicken would be smuggled in with, and points. “In you go, Cas. We’ll set you up in the room and come back later and debrief you.”

Dean frowns, clearly not approving of this plan.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t pout, Dean, you can live without your wittle baby for a few hours.”

“He’s not—! Shut up!”

Castiel grumbles, attempting to climb into the bag with dignity and grace, and tumbles into it headfirst instead. Sam snorts, Dean grins, and Castiel rights himself, grooming his wings. He pretends he isn’t embarrassed. They smuggle the chicken in successfully, and Dean lets out a whistle as he looks around their room. “Fancy digs, man.”

“It will be adequate,” Castiel says as he is freed from his polyurethane-and-nylon cage. He climbs into the box that Sam has so considerately set up for him, with a bowl of water and dish of chicken feed nearby. He settles into the box, eyes falling shut. “Yes, quite acceptable.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam says wryly.

“I did not thank you,” Castiel grumps. Dean crosses over to the box, crouching down to bop the chicken.

“Bad chicken! We say please and thank you in this family.”

Castiel halfheartedly pecks at Dean’s hand. He opens one eye and peers at Dean, disgruntled. “It is quite presumptuous of you to assume a plebeian toad such as yourself ranks within my good graces, let alone possesses such a high position.”

Dean rolls his eyes and pats Castiel. Castiel attempts to convey his irritation at the affectionate, yet condescending, gesture. Of course, as always, he fails. “Do you need a blankey, chicky?”

Castiel refuses to answer, so Dean heads over to his brother to discuss their plan for the afternoon. Castiel dozes, startled awake when the door to the room shuts, and then falls back into long-awaited sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck i'm trash
> 
> ok so... i have reasons why i didn't update this for a while. like, school, and ran out of meds so my unmedicated ass went a little crazy (it's ok i got 'em now, thanks obamacare [forreal, no sarcasm]), and school, and stardew valley came out i've been waiting for that game for FOUR YEARS guys, FOUR YEARS. if you have 15 spare dollars and want a fun harvest moon-type, moddable PC game... get your ass on steam and get that game.
> 
> if someone wants to write me an essay on anti-japanese sentiment in china and south korea since world war 2, lmk ;) 10 pages, at least 10 sources, grad-school-level-work.
> 
> jk i'll do it myself.
> 
> but seriously...


End file.
